


Smoke and Mirrors

by Drbwho, Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 135,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you really think there is nothing I care for?” As he spoke he leaned in, his fingers still at her neck, caressing.</p><p>“I think you care about the contents of her bank account. And the new clothes, and…”And what? What did the man care about? He leaned, and the girl had nowhere to go. She was aware of her heartbeat, quick, forcing that vital fluid to her face, to her toes, and then, to her abdomen in a sickly sort of anticipation. “And what else, Mr. Baelish?” <i>Tell me.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RP style Great Depression Era Petyr/Sansa story, originally posted (and ongoing) at http://kindlymeant.tumblr.com/tagged/smokeandmirrors/chrono
> 
> thanks to user ocularis (catladyofthecanals on tumblr) for organising the thread for us!

**[Sansa]**

The estate was vast; sprawling endlessly in any direction, with twisting pathways and secret hideaways. There were trees with empty swings delicately hanging, and quaint, perfectly positioned ponds to rest beside. In the centre, surrounded by meticulously trimmed, lush green grass and the reds and yellows of flowers clipped to perfection, stood the main home of the Arryn family. 

 She did not concern herself with those pretty things in that moment. A half mile from the large house was where the small crowd had gathered, dressed in greys and black and soot and coal. Few had made the journey to pay their respects, because few were left to make the trip at all. And as to her own siblings, well, it was believed a clean break would be best. 

 She wore long skirt, plain and dark, to match a buttoned blouse and cloche hat borrowed from her aunt’s vast wardrobe; she had nothing of her own there, having been refused time to gather her personal belongings in the frantic scuffle. In front of her, a beautifully designed coffin was being lowered, lowered into the ground. Inside the ornate, swirling patterns atop wood rested her mother, cold and still and rotting. 

 She did not cry; the last time she thought to shed a tear her aunt had gripped her hand coldly, in warning. Lysa Arryn was not a patient woman, nor was she a friendly or kind or pleasant woman. She sat next to her then, stoic and uncaring; her perfectly plastered makeup was not marred by signs of grief, but it also did not conceal her shrewd, rodent-like face or cruel eyes. 

 Behind her, she heard a man whispering to another, “who’s that?” And so the girl turned, in the sort of apathetic, idly curiosity manner gifted to someone who had just known great loss, until she saw the figure in question. 

 He was more shadow than person; the sun seemed to miss him entirely, favouring instead the shrubs and plants on either side. It was a _he_ , she was certain by his posture and lack of curves, and he was simply watching from afar. Her own brows furrowed, mentally ticking off every friend or foe of her mother’s, coming up decidedly short. 

_Who was he?_

-

The evening proved to be exactly what she had expected; almost-strangers offering almost-sincere condolences, and she lost count of how many times she was called, “ _poor girl_ ,” or someone praised her aunt’s selfless act of taking the orphaned child in. She had learned, even in such a short time, that her aunt might be many things, but selfless was not one of them. 

 She found herself searching for the man from earlier, the intrigue providing a suitable distraction from all other less favourable  
emotions. She surveyed the large dining hall, walked some of the hallways, and even stole into the kitchens in an attempt to discover that enigmatic, shadowed form. And eventually, her efforts provided results. 

 Leaning against the wall, hiding in plain sight, it was him. The greying temples struck her first, he must be older then, a contrast to his youthfully thin body. He found it hard to determine what colour his eyes were, exactly, as she made her way to stand in front of him.    
 “I saw you earlier. At the funeral.” _Was it an accusation?_ Her tone might have suggested as much. “Who are you?” 

 

**[Petyr]**

He now knew what it felt like to be a drowning man.

Curious that he would feel such a thing in an environment such as this, where every step stirred up the dust, but it was an ocean in its own way. Vast and full of horrific things that very much did not want him there.

And just like the ocean his lungs were clogged—with dust, with memory, with the press of something he was struggling to bury. That alone would account for this queer, overwhelming sensation. He watched from afar (cautious, even now, of his _status_ ) as they lowered what was left of her into the ground. Only it wasn’t her anymore, just a dead thing, rotting, nearly dust. Soon enough she would be swept up by the winds, choking another man.

From his perch atop the hill Petyr had surveyed the crowd, tearing himself away from the sight of the pit in order to focus himself on the task at hand. _Poor Lysa will be inconsolable_. The thought was one that had kept him company on the cheap trip here, but he had to struggle to keep it on his mind when he saw what stood beside her.

She was there, in all her beauty, untarnished by the winds. And yet it wasn’t her—a shadow, a mirror, nothing more.

And yet it was enough to draw him.

He was not welcome in these circles, that he knew, though he was certain Lysa would greet him with open arms once he saw her—she was always a foolish thing, full of smiles and lacking in much else. This would almost be too easy. And yet he bid his time, did not run to her straight away. He lingered on the edges until she came close enough to breathe him in.

Her eyes were Cat’s. It was a cruel joke.

She wasn’t Cat, of course. She did not know him, though she spoke to him with confidence, her tone more than a little sharp. He smiled, not quite sure what to do with what the universe had just dropped before him.

“Petyr Baelish.” It felt good to say his name in this house. “Your mother was a great friend of mine—she was your mother, I take it?” 

 

**[Sansa]**

He smiled, and the smile nettled her. It dug into flesh and viscera, tightening her jaw and guiding her hands into fists. How dare he smile, how dare he tilt his lips in that manner, as her mother slowly began to decompose not far away. She did not like him instantly, the unknown man, with his casual smirk. But still, despite herself, he managed to capture her attention entirely when he made his introduction.

_Petyr Baelish._ The name was not entirely foreign to her, but try as she might she could not recall the context. Stories from her mother’s childhood, perhaps? They could not have been friendly in Sansa’s lifetime, surely. She would have known him, she would have met him. She was positive he had not; Sansa would have remembered those eyes; a sort of amalgamation of moss and lead, and very, very peculiar.  
   
She wondered if the hair gave away her parentage, as it often did; auburn loose and long now that she had no need of a hat. “She was my mother. And now she’s dead.” The words were childish, exposing the youth she tried to conceal away. This was not the time to be a girl, not anymore, not with Lysa’s watchful eye almost always boring into her. But they weren’t boring now; she wondered what preoccupied her aunt then, that she was not looming over her like a heavy tree. Part of her wanted a rescue, no matter what foul source it came from.  
   
The girl was tempted to neglect her own introduction, to refuse to share her name and leave him there, alone. Courtesy, unfortunately for her, was a difficult habit to break. “My name is Sansa Stark.” No _pleased to meet you_ though, she would not give him that. Secretly, that _did_ please her, although she doubted very much the man cared about such trivial things.

 Staring at him for a moment, she wondered how he knew her mother. He appeared younger in age; a youthful enough appearance in a crowd of older and more somber, pitying faces. He was different somehow, that much she could see. He did not fit.  

But then again, neither did she. 

 “What exactly are you doing here?” Did the faux confidence in her voice falter, then? She felt the words almost shatter out, breaking through the armour she’d donned for the funeral. Her arms crossed, dark skirt sweeping as she made to stand directly in front of him, even as she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. _And what can I do to make you leave?_ Those words she did not say, but perhaps her cold eyes said them all the same.

 

**[Petyr]**

In that moment he was oddly preoccupied by the dryness in his mouth. It had been a constant companion for what had seemed like months and yet here, under her stare, it was impossible to shake. 

She had Cat’s resolve. She stared at him with icy eyes, her arms pressed against her chest as a shield, and all he wished for was to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Feel it between his fingers once more. 

He could predict that he would do so soon enough with Lysa, but that was more than a poor substitute. 

“I was raised with your mother.” The words were true and he had not intended for them to spill out so quickly–had not intended to show his hand just yet–but something about their closeness, about the press of the room and the grief he had buried deep made them rise to the surface. “As a ward. After my parents death. I assure you, I came only to show my respects.” _A half-truth._  

He could hear Lysa somewhere in the hall, her voice unmistakeable even through her sobs. She would want comfort. It would be the perfect chance for him to attach himself to her side, to wind his way back into her life. To get out of this slump that he had found himself in since birth. 

Instead of going to her, however, he took one step closer to Sansa. 

“Will you be staying here for long, with your aunt?” A simple question and one that he didn’t really need the answer to, for even if she wasn’t Petyr Baelish had not come all this way to not attach himself to poor Lysa. But yet the answer seemed all important to him; being within her presence seemed all important to him.  

Lysa was getting closer. He took a step back from Sansa, an unconscious desire not to be seen as inappropriate taking him by the collar. 

Even now, there was a charge to the air. 

 

**[Sansa]**

A voice, shrill and familiar, rang out at her side. The girl’s face softened, fear of being caught with an accusing stare and angry features trumped any irritation she’d directed at the man. He must have heard it as well, judging by the shift in his posture. It was fluid, catlike, and again her curiosity toward Petyr Baelish was piqued. 

 Did he know the other woman as well; her mother’s younger sister? He must, to have been raised with her, to be granted entry into the estate and the vast home. She wondered how well they might know each other, her terrible relation and the man who did not fit.

He closed in on her, and she felt an odd sort of unease, as if he might be a vicious animal seeking a quick meal. It was silly, a foolish thought, and so the girl shrugged the feeling off before it burrowed deeper into her mind, or so she told herself she did. Her feet did not guide her backward, she did not succumb to the primal desire to retreat from him. She stood firm, so preoccupied with the man himself she barely processed his question. 

 For a few heartbeats she did not answer, and there was a good reason for her hesitance. “I-“ she paused, and had she really had a chance in her grief to give it much thought? “I don’t know.” But she _did_ know. Sansa Stark was trapped there, stuck in a cage of her family’s making. Indefinitely.  

 At least it was a lovely prison. 

 She heard her warden approaching just as the man backed away. And so instead of scurrying after her weak reply, instead of fleeing the conversation like a scared little mouse, she waited for her dear Aunt Lysa to take care of it. She would make the mysterious man leave; she had no tolerance for strangers. She had no tolerance for people at all since her husband’s recent demise. 

 Her aunt’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she had never been so thankful to feel the sharp fingernails dig into her skin.

 

**[Petyr]**

Lysa’s presence was like a slap in the face, even though she was the whole reason he was here, even though she was to be his salvation. Petyr knew it would be hard to feign excitement and interest but he did not anticipate the struggle he had in putting his features in place. He thrived on chaos but he had not anticipated Sansa, staring at him with her mother’s eyes. 

His smile was wide, cutting into his mouth. He struggled, his voice cracking, but he did not expect Lysa to notice. 

“Lysa, my dear. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He reached out to take her hand, holding the plump flesh tight. His smile grew more comfortable as Lysa fell perfectly into her role, giggling a bit, blushing a bit. A girl in love, still, flirting at her sister’s funeral.  

Sansa’s eyes were hot on him and he could not help his gaze as it drifted back to her. 

_Foolish. You are being foolish._ Petyr leaned in to kiss Lysa’s hand, closing his eyes as he did so. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a squeak. “But I assure you, your presence lightens the blow. How long will you be in town?” 

He leaned in closer, allowing his lips to brush her ear, savoring her giggle. _All too easy_. “That all depends on the kindness of your family. For you see–I hoped something good would come from this loss. A reunion.”

Sansa’s hair caught the light as she fled from the room. 

 

**[Sansa]**

_No._  

It was rude, the way she left them; backing away before she turned, rotating on a heel and letting her desperation to flee overtake her rationality. She doubted her aunt would care, anyway. She doubted she’d even noticed; preoccupied with the man she was obviously well enough acquainted with.  

Her feet carried her upstairs in a hurry, and she was quietly upset with herself for being upset in the first place. A barely familiar wooden door clicked after her; she was already halfway to the bed of her new room by the time it shut completely. The girl stared at the wall with her back to the entrance, still dressed in her funeral clothes. Her shoes were still strapped to sore feet. She was sure no one would bother her; who cared enough to? 

-

He didn’t leave.  

She heard the maids muttering outside of her thin door the next morning. They were disgusted; how dare the recent widow take on a new suitor. It was unseemly. No! It was downright _shameful_ , letting a man into her home. The gossip continued, but Sansa ignored it, brushing her hair and wondering how long she could hide away in the bedroom. 

But she couldn’t lock herself away. Her aunt had taken the orphaned girl in, and no matter how bitter she seemed to be about it, Sansa must be amiable. She must try to be kind. Death was a burden for everyone, perhaps her aunt just bore the weight differently.  

She washed her face and donned a new set of clothes, resolve set in her features. Making her way down the hall and to the staircase, she found herself once again face to face with the subject of the maids’ loose lips.  

The girl took a deep breath. “Mr. Baelish. Please excuse my rudeness yesterday.” She extended her hand as an offering. “Can we begin again?” Sansa smiled a hollow smile, and she remembered the way he’d smiled at her aunt the day before. It was just the same.

 

**[Petyr]**

It was all too easy. 

Lysa’s arms were wide open, her heart practically bleeding for him. Before he knew it he was well within her confidences, close to her, washed and dressed and fed. The night of the funeral he slept on silk sheets, the morning after he awoke without a sore spot in his body. The long, dusty days of the road seemed to be buried in the past and now all he had to do was keep entwining himself around her life. 

But something else hung in those threads, not allowing him ease even in the poshest of surroundings. 

It rested at the end of the hallway, lingered at the edges of his thoughts. Her eyes were staring him down whenever he closed his own. Cat’s eyes but yet not. Cat was dead, rotting, but the shadow of her remained. He had not taken this girl into account; how could he?

He felt foolish for thinking that. He was Petyr Baelish. He should have _known._

She was avoiding him, of course. He couldn’t blame her. Death still cloaked the house and here he was, starting this life with Lysa without so much as a word to her. It was unseemly, as the servants said. 

He knew she was avoiding him and yet he was not surprised to be approached by her the next day. Something in her manner told him she was not a girl to back down, that she would confront him sooner or later if only for the peace of the house. 

They were alone in the hallway. He could smell her sweet perfume on the stale summer air. 

He took her hand. Her skin was smooth and soft, the skin of a woman who had never done hard labor in her life. It slipped easily into his palm and it was all he could do not to pull, to bring her closer into his circle, to breathe her in until he could choke on her. 

Instead he smiled. 

“Yes of course. And no need to apologize, my girl–I understand well enough your sorrow.” He swiped across the back of her palm with his thumb. “I hope you are not too put out by my presence?” 

 

**[Sansa]**

His hand was warm, so unlike an aunt’s cold grip that often came to clasp her shoulder. She couldn’t recall, in a mind brimming with loss and hurt, the last time she felt such a warmth. The connections at the funeral, the embraces and the brief kisses to a cheek, were cold. No matter how sincere a person might want to seem, there was always a hollowness there, an obligation to comfort. She found no solace there.  

She was sure this man had no obligation, to her; there was no need for sincerity. Perhaps that was why she felt the warmth.  

When he spoke, she watched his eyes and not his face. She had learned that the truth often lived in the pupils, in the lines around the eyes, in the look. There was no smile there, in the greenish-grey, to match his mouth.  

“Do you?” The words slipped out, uninhibited. _Do you understand? Do you know, truly know, how I feel?_ She thought of the day before, his banter with a still mourning widow, and she wondered.  

Before her thoughts could stray further, his thumb moved, grazing the sensitive skin on her hand. She started, caught off-guard, expecting him to take his arm away. It was nothing, barely a sweep at all, but her eyes widened all the same, not breaking her stare at that man. She was acutely aware of her hand still in his.

“Of course, not. You’re welcome here as long as my aunt will have you.” No mention of herself or her preferences; she didn’t matter, not really. 

“And how long will you be staying?” She parroted her aunt’s words, asking them with what she hoped would appear to be casual curiosity, even as her mind branched out, beyond where they stood, noticing their solitude. There was no lingering maid or lurking relative to chaperone this conversation.  

And her hand was still in his, lasting far longer than propriety should allow, heated by his blood, flowing under nail and skin.

 

**[Petyr]**

He was acutely aware of the soft weight of her hand in his, of the way every moment they were connected stretched the properness of their encounter. Petyr ticked off the seconds in his head as he held onto her hand, his smirk taking on a shade of victory. 

She didn’t mention anything of her desire in her questions and yet here she was, not pulling away, not diverting her gaze. 

“Oh, I hope to stay for quite a while. The road grows weary.” _And my pockets grow light._ He was thankful that no one noticed his lack of wardrobe–two well-worn suits were all that he had. For now.  

He let go of her then, his skin retaining some of her heat. He did not, however, pull away, instead leaning slightly closer, scoping her out. 

“I do hope we can be friends, Sansa.” Petyr kept his voice low, a secret on the summer air. All around them was still, as if they were the only ones in the grand house. “I get the impression you’re quite a clever girl, and I would like a new conversational partner.” _I only have Lysa, after all._

His hand found his pocket then, his fingers curling about his handkerchief, hoping that would retain some of her scent.

 

**[Sansa]**

“A while?” The girl stuttered the syllables out in response, uncertain if his words had been the cause for her broken reply, or if it could be attributed to the loss of warmth his hand had provided.  

And she felt broken then; he seemed to be prying her open, examining skin and bone as he moved nearer to her. Her face felt warm, and she wondered if he could see the flush on her; she’d never been very good at hiding it. She decided she’d practice concealing her blushes later in the day, perhaps in front of a mirror.  

The silence in the home afforded her the ability to hear her own breath, deafening during his pauses in speech. And she could hear his as well, calm and even as she struggled to maintain her own cool demeanour.  

_A conversational partner_. The almost-whisper in which he spoke seemed to indicate there might be more to the words, more than an offhanded comment. What was his goal? Surely she hadn’t imagined the look on his face the day before; he wasn’t infatuated with her aunt. That much was plain enough to her. Why then, was he planning to stay? 

She watched his eyes, keeping his gaze as well as she could, despite the falter she felt creeping through. “Breakfast,” was all she managed to sputter out. A quick clearing of her throat and she spoke again. “It’ll be waiting, Mr. Baelish.” Sansa did not move, waiting instead for him to take the first step away.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her statement seemed to break something, as if a stone had been tossed into a pond, causing ripples on what was once so still. It radiated through him with a force that such a simple word had never before held, seemed to disturb the very dust in the air.   
It let him know, without a shadow of a doubt, that what she had read into their encounter was along the same lines as what he had sensed. That knowledge twisted a smile from him; that knowledge put him on guard. 

He turned to move then, ushering her down the stairs with a sweep of his hand, keeping a steady eye on her all the while. 

 -

The days passed in a heated haze. Lysa was seemingly oblivious to the girl, preferring to lose herself in Petyr, never once remarking on the way the two of them lingered about each other, sniffing the air. 

His suits got better. His pockets grew heavy, and the whispers grew hot. _Foolish Lysa, spending her inheritance on this cad_. But Lysa was Lysa, and the whispers only made her dig her heels in further. 

And Petyr kept Sansa in his gaze. Always he marked her presence, her false smiles, the way she seemingly could not detach herself from the two of them. She kept her distance, however, and it was a painful thing that he had not anticipated. He longed to feel the heat of her hands once more. 

The ornate brooch, laid upon her bed in a box lined with velvet, was his way in. 

 

**[Sansa]**

Perhaps in her mind she’d convinced herself that the way her glances never strayed too far from the pair was for her aunt’s benefit. The rumours were there, after all, covering the new lovers like a fog, festering in the minds of Aunt Lysa’s more affluent acquaintances. She ought to be protecting the vulnerable widow, especially after taking in the poor, orphaned girl.  

But in her heart she knew the truth was entirely unhealthy, because Sansa didn’t care about Lysa Arryn. No matter how hard she tried, the mutual disdain was a constant presence. And even worse, Petyr Baelish seemed to be the only thing relieving her aunt’s cruel behaviour toward her. With each new garment, every expensive tie, he seemed to grow more comfortable with the arrangement, and Lysa became less occupied with scolding her niece. 

One afternoon she finally had cause to track the man down again. A gift, surely from him, rested on the cool blankets of her bed. Her fingers skimmed the soft, dark velvet as she stared at the brooch, one that was nearly identical in colour to her own eyes. No one had ever given her a gift so intricate, so expensive as she was certain it was.  

She closed the box quickly, as if snapping out of a dream, turning on a heel and hurrying into the study, a place that the man seemed to enjoy.   

She found him there, reclining on an oversized chair. _Had he been waiting?_ Jaw set, the girl extended her arm to him, the box inches from his chest. “Mr. Baelish, thank you for the gift, but I cannot possibly accept it.” She forced the words out through a tight smile. _What was his game?_ “Perhaps the present might be better suited for your paramour.”

 

**[Petyr]**

  
Petyr was not quite sure what reaction to expect, but virtually every possibility was enticing in some way. She would either be pleased or displeased, would come to him with soft eyes or eyes with a fire–either way _she_  would come to _him_. Such a thought. 

Of course she might ignore him entirely, but such a thought was not to be entertained. She had Cat’s eyes but she was not Cat.

He felt great satisfaction with the dismissal of this thought when he heard her footsteps in the hall, when she stepped into the study in a swirl of skirts, her head held high. 

For most men the sharp return of a gift would be like a knife to the chest. But not Petyr Baelish, not this time. The gift was only a first step, an opening serve. 

Sansa stood before him, proud and tall, her arm extended but not closing the distance between them. He held her eyes, his lips curling upward in a more sincere version of her smile–one he ensured was tinged with sadness, of course. 

“Does it not please you?” With that he reached up for the box, making sure his fingers touched hers, caressing them for a bit too long. He took it from her then, held it lightly, almost disinterested. “I can assure you Lysa has all her needs met.” A lift of the eyebrow and he set the box aside, on the arm of the chair.  

“I merely thought to make amends for any awkwardness. I apologize.” As he spoke he reached out with one long finger and grazed the silk of her skirt–a gesture that could be innocent.

 

**[Sansa]**

  
“Does it not-” She stopped herself when he took the gift back from her. For a moment the man looked quite unhappy, and despite the irritation that lived underneath her ribs there was an unwelcome pang of shame, likely borne from years of striving to please. She second-guessed herself then, eying the box resting on the chair’s arm, wondering if she might still be able to rectify the situation. “It’s a beautiful brooch.” The girl conceded. 

What had she had initially intended to be a counter turned into something entirely different as she spoke again, this time without the fumbling search for the right words. “And what would I tell her, if she asked where it came from?” Her. The girl couldn’t even find it in herself to say her aunt’s name. That name was snatched away from her memory as she watched his hand move, move toward her.   
Lysa would ask, she knew. Sansa Stark might have come from an affluent family, but she carried nothing of her own to show for it, with only a handful of personal belongings in her pockets when she first arrived at the estate. Her aunt would _know_.  

Her own fingers twitched at her side, and could he see it? She supposed it didn’t matter if he did, because her arm slowly shifted, seemingly on its own, a small hand covering the man’s digit that skimmed her clothes. She wasn’t sure what her intentions were in that moment, but surely her goal was to pry his wandering finger away, wasn’t it?  

Still, her hand did not move, simply covering his own, feeling the warmth from his hand, feeling the warmth of the room on her cheeks. Blue eyes, identical in colour to the present inside a forgotten box, lifted to meet his.

 

**[Petyr]**

“You will tell her you have an admirer.” Not entirely a lie. “Surely a girl as lovely as you has one…”

His train of thought disappeared at the feel of her skin on his. It was as warm and soft as he remembered, barley any different from the silk of her skirt, and Petyr sucked in a breath at the sensation, the heat of the room suddenly becoming quite noticeable indeed.

However he did not break her gaze once she granted it to him. Averting his eyes would be a slight to her, would be the most foolish thing he could do. 

But his finger did not remain still. He joined it with another and then another, pressing against her hand, twisting in the silk, tangling himself into her. He could feel her leg through the thin fabric. He exhaled a held breath and stole a glance at the door. Their was a twinge of intimacy in the heat of the air, despite the _slightness_  of their actions. 

“Keep it, please.” His words were almost an afterthought. “It is a gift.” 

He pictured her at dinner, the brooch at her throat, Lysa’s eyes sharp on her back. The image gave him a slight tremor of pleasure and he pressed harder into her leg.

 

**[Sansa]**

  
“There is a boy…” A blonde, young thing, the son of someone important enough to keep her aunt’s attention from time to time. Well, until it ceased altogether, focused entirely on the man whose attention she currently had in full.

 Where had her breath gone; had he pulled it from her? She was congnisant of it then, the way she was forced to think about her next inhalation, exhalation, inhalation. It was no longer a feat attributed to an unconscious mechanism alone. There was silence for a moment, that checked breathing the only sound to be heard. 

 He didn’t draw back, and the girl began to falter. Shame crept in, compounding with the heat on her face and the growing warmth in her stomach. And when the man pressed, her breathing halted altogether. She could nearly feel his skin on hers, staking a claim where no other had touched. 

 “It isn’t proper, Mr Baelish,” No more than a whisper, and she wasn’t sure if she meant the gift on the armrest or his fingers twined with hers. He must have been aware of it as well, the indecency; his own eyes looking toward the door. 

 Even as she said those words she seemed to betray them, leaning forward to grasp the box loosely with her free hand. Her long hair fell forward as she did, spilling into the space between them, the same space that waned incrementally as she bent. And her hand was still mingled with his in her skirt, feeling that unrelenting press.

 

**[Petyr]**

  
“Petyr,” he corrected her. The word was barely more than a breath, an exhale in the hot, still air. He hadn’t even thought to do so, his name slipping out of his mouth and into the quiet before he knew what he was doing. An unusual thing indeed, for Petyr Baelish always knew what he was doing. 

But the room was affecting him, _she_ was affecting him. He felt warm and flush; he heard the sharp ticking of the clock on the mantle with an unusual clarity. And yet despite this unease he savored this sensation, drank from it until he was properly intoxicated. 

She had an admirer who she dismissed as if he was nothing. He had anticipated as such, and found himself more than pleased. A boy. A decoy. 

“Proper?” He repeated the word to him as she leaned in, closing the space between them, and his heart clenched. Her hair grazed his cheek. It was Tully red, it carried an air of spice with it, and he wanted nothing more than to curl her towards him, curl up into her, ravish her.  

Instead he sat there, trying not to be conspicuous, trying to breathe.

“Propriety gets us so much.” He accented the words with a sharp smile that did not reach his eyes. He held her gaze even as she grasped the box in a soft hand, his fingers still digging into her thigh. He wondered if he would leave a mark. He knew the thought of it, of a slight bruise _right there_ , that he could not see, would be something that would haunt him for weeks.  

But Sansa straightened and he did as well, dropping his hand from her. The silk was bunched and he could still feel her in his fingers. He knew her scent must linger on the tips. 

“A gift,” he repeated. He sat in his chair, a spent man. “Wear it. It was meant for you only.” It was almost a challenge.

 

**[Sansa]**

  
_For you only._

The girl feigned a stomachache when the time came for dinner, instead having dry toast brought to her room. Of course her aunt wouldn’t care, she probably hadn’t even noticed the absence. Her mind was constantly preoccupied with another, after all. 

The bread rested on the table next to the bed, untouched. And the girl was side-lying on the mattress, staring at the gift she’d set on the pillow opposite her. A beautiful trinket, likely purchased with an allowance granted by her aunt. But he’d said the words to her: _for you only._

Index moved to her skirt, running across the place where his hold had turned almost biting, feeling the beginning of a bruise form. She hadn’t missed it, his eyes, his breath, paired with his touch. She closed her eyes, and made a decision.

 -

It wasn’t until the next evening that she graced the dining table again, apologizing to Aunt Lysa and her constant company for the empty chair the evening before. Her relative was in the middle of an ungrateful slurp of potato soup when she noticed the ornament decorating the place above her chest, a beacon in the midst of a worn wardrobe. Questions came immediately: _who and where and how?_

Sansa did then what she had never truly done before; _she lied._ She told a tale of Harry, the nice boy from the estate across town, presenting her with the brooch at her mother’s funeral. And as soon as the story was told, her aunt lost interest, excusing herself for a bath before her niece had finished eating. 

But the man remained.

“Mr. Baelish.” She hadn’t forgotten his request, his first name. Perhaps it was the success she found with the lie that gave her the confidence to utter what came next, flippantly spoken: “Wouldn’t you prefer to join her?” _Her_ again. The girl brought the spoon to her mouth, sipping as she looked up from the utensil.

 

**[Petyr]**

  
His fingers retained the memory of her. A twinge, a scent. He was careful not to sully them too much with Lysa that evening.

He had not expected her to attend that dinner but the question of the next day remained. Truth be told it could go either way, though one course of action was of course preferable, and he could not fully suppress his smile when it turned out to be the path she chose.   
She graced them in worn clothes and a too-expensive brooch and he felt that familiar pull. 

He listened to her story, his attention rapt, watched her face as she plied her aunt with lies. They fell easily from her sweet lips; there was nothing her eyes to suggest she spoke anything but the truth. Lysa grew bored with her tales quickly, eager to return herself to Petyr, but he lingered over those words. Even without knowing the truth he could tell they were lies, of course–subtle things gave her away–but most would not. And all it would take to trick the best would be a bit of polish. 

When they were left alone he inhaled, exhaled, savored her air. 

He did not correct his name. He knew her game quite well. Instead he took a sip of his wine as she sipped at her food. 

“I can have your aunt’s company whenever I please. I’m a bit starved for yours, Sansa.” His eyes left hers to linger at her throat, the brooch striking against her pale skin.  

“Harry is your admirer, I take it?”

 

**[Sansa]**

  
Sitting across from him, several plates and napkins and serving dishes between them, she could almost play the part she truly wanted to. There was less trepidation without his fingers on her skirt, without the quiet of the study. In the dining room there were noises, proof that they were not entirely alone. The muffled clanging of dishes being cleaned in the kitchen, the echo of her aunt chastising a maid to hurry with the warm water half a house away, the wind against the thick windows; they all merged together in an odd sort of song, a backdrop for their conversation.  

She could be braver in the open hall, she tried to convince herself, even as one of her hands reached to press her thigh under the table, feeling the lightly purpled skin. Even as she felt herself blush at his words. _Starved_ , and when had she ever heard that word used in such a way? 

“I’m poor company when compared to my lovely aunt, don’t you think?” She’d heard the maids talk, the unladylike sounds they all claimed her aunt made behind closed doors at night. More than likely, he had her company whenever _she_ pleased. The thought made Sansa squirm.

At his inquiry, she set the spoon down, pushing the bowl aside. “Something like that. Aunt Lysa said he was quite taken with me when we were first introduced.” A bumbling fool, he was, and not very kind, but Petyr Baelish did not have to be privy that part of the story. “His father owns the largest estate in the city, did you know?”

And bolder still, she continued, setting her napkin on the table and moving to stand. “A pity his mother isn’t a widow, isn’t it? Their family has a summer home in Italy.” Her voice, try as she might, was not entirely steady. Her knees could scarcely keep straight. “You could be in Tuscany right now, Mr Baelish. Have you ever been?”

 

**[Petyr]**

  
She actually blushed, the flush coloring her pale skin in a way that only made it more lovely in his eyes. He sucked in a breath at the sight, shamefully more than a little overwhelmed. And how could he not be? She was youth and innocence incarnate, wrapped in the lingering promise of something more. The potential for tarnish was there, the potential for skill. She was Cat and yet she wasn’t, for there was a tantalizing bit of slyness there that he had never seen in Cat. 

But it was raw, as he saw as she stumbled a bit over her words, her voice wavering as she attempted to spar. He could not help but notice the slight tremor of her body as she stood to leave, as she delivered her blows. 

“No, I have never been,’ he responded, not answering her slights. It was obvious, of course, what Petyr’s game was–only Lysa did not suspect, and as long of Lysa was ignorant he did not care what whispers and warnings were given. 

“We should go sometime,” he continued, leaving the question of who the _we_  was an open one.  

He stood then himself, downing the rest of his wine and moving towards her. “You look faint, my dear. Perhaps I should help you to get some air?”

 

**[Sansa]**

  
He barely acknowledged her thinly veiled accusations, instead choosing to recognize only the harmless part of her inquiry. It might have irritated her, if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with staying vertical. Perhaps foregoing her last few meals was a poor decision. 

She felt faint, then, a girl so unused to lying, so unused to anything. Her conversational partners prior were mainly limited to those her own age. After her parents were killed, her selection of acquaintances diminished further still, until she had no one at all. 

He closed in, and she let herself be guided out and out, through the wide doors and into the cold night air. Her lucidity returned, slowly, and all too soon she discovered her folly; she again found herself quite alone with the man. She wasn’t ready for this, she wasn’t ready.  

There was no safety, not outside with him, having just presented some very harsh charges against him. Sansa had no idea what sort of man he truly was, or what he was capable of. But surely his virtue ought to be questioned, and not just for his behaviour with Lysa Arryn. The bruise on her body was a lingering reminder of it.  

She took a step away from him, using the pretense of leaning against the stone of the house, her palm pressing to the wall to stabilize herself. Her eyes fully cleared, and her spine aligned again, watching his face faintly glow from the light of the house. She could run, if she needed; she knew of places to hide.  

“You don’t care for her at all, do you?” There wasn’t any sadness in the question; she still held no fondness for her aunt. “You don’t care about anything.” Her hand scraped against rock again, the abrasive feel on her skin was almost a comfort.

 

**[Petyr]**

  
He walked her outside with purpose, anxious to escape the stifling nature of the house, anxious to breathe in nothing but her scent. Just a few quick steps and they were outside, his own hands hovering about her, guiding her into the dark. 

It took just a moment for his eyes to adjust. Sansa was in shadows now, her lovely pale face catching only slivers of light from the house. The moon was not yet full, the stars not yet burning. The day was dying, the ink of night creeping towards them with a steady pace. 

When she spoke it was in an even tone again, her voice holding none of the unease that he had seen when first she stood. Perhaps the air was good for her. Perhaps it was merely the distance from her aunt. 

_Her aunt._ She never spoke her name, held her at arm’s length even in conversation. 

“Does it bother you?” He didn’t protest her first accusation, though her second produced a chill deep within him. _Feelings_  were not something he prided himself in, but Petyr Baelish cared about a great deal. Status. Wealth. Everything that had been denied him all his poor, shallow youth.  

Sansa stood before him, the paleness of her skin, of her dress, stark against the darkening sky. The brooch at her throat caught some threads of light from the house, and like a moth to a flame Petyr reached for it. 

His long fingers touched the sides of it gingerly, grazing the soft skin of her neck. His eyes shifted from the jewel to her own gaze, the blue darkened by their surroundings. She was exquisite–perhaps too fine for a place such as this. 

“Do you really think there is nothing I care for?” As he spoke he leaned in, his fingers still at her neck, caressing.  

 

**[Sansa]**

  
“Yes.” Did it bother her, really? It should, she knew that much, and so she said the word, hoping the lie was not as transparent as it felt inside her chest. Her aunt was her family, her flesh and bone, and no, it didn’t bother her. 

Not for the first time since moving in with Lysa Arryn, she wondered if there was something inherently wrong with her. Perhaps the loss of her family made her diseased with apathy. Did she know how to care anymore? Or maybe she’d forgotten, unconsciously pushing it aside with the arithmetic figures and Latin words from school.   

Burdensome arms were limp at her sides, unsure of how the dance was done. Against the wall, ensnared in a trap of her own making, she settled for flexing the digits, pumping blood into her fingertips. _Starved_ , the man had said earlier, and he might have looked hungry then, watching her, caging her, preparing for the feast. 

This time he went not to her thigh, but to her neck, and the millisecond long blinks of her eyes grew lazier, stretched out into moments, relishing, snapping open only when he posed another question.  

“I think you care about the contents of her bank account.” A hand, a slight tremor, lifted to brush the collar of his shirt, mirroring his movement to her own neck. “And the new clothes, and…” _And what? What did the man care about?_

The man leaned, and the girl had nowhere to go. Her heartbeat was a pounding, quick and deliberate, forcing that vital fluid to her face, to her toes, and then, below her abdomen in a sickly sort of anticipation.  

“And what else, Mr Baelish?” _Tell me._


	2. Chapter 2

**[Petyr]**

This close he was overwhelmed with her perfume, with the unmistakable scent of her. The garden had long since withered and died, killed off by the oppressive drought, but she smelled far sweeter than any flower. As delicate as one, for sure, but mixed with that was the tang of something darker. Perhaps it was nothing more than a promise at this point, manifested in the way she prodded him with questions and shaky hands. 

The promise of _something_. The girl was raw; he could polish her. 

Petyr attempted to retain the upper hand despite her touch, despite her hand at his collar, her fingers grazing his skin. The pale look had gone from her, replaced with nothing but blood, nothing but life. She was so close, too close.

He should chide himself for being so easily snared, but what was the harm of it? He was starving and in his hand he cupped a just ripened fruit, not yet plucked. He would have to leave soon, when the account was as dry as the land. He did not wish to leave without a taste. 

His other hand worked on its own accord and settled at her waist, gripping her tight, balancing himself. He leaned in a hair more, his fingers now cupping her behind the neck, his lips hovering just above hers. He didn’t so much as kiss her as he breathed, pressing against her with the exhale. 

“You’re a clever girl,” he spoke, his lips just barely touching hers. “Is it not clear?”

 

**[Sansa]**

 He took hold of her side, a grip akin to an anchor, and her body bowed to accommodate. It was the sensation of his fingers finding the back of her neck that forced her eyes close, lips parting in a sigh. It wasn’t right, she knew; there was no way to weave this tale in her mind to make it seem as if it might be a good decision. And so she pushed the warnings aside, focusing on the warmth of his body, the slight touch of his mouth, a tease that seemed to torment them both.

“Do you think I’m clever?” She didn’t feel terribly clever in that moment. She felt dizzy, a heady sensation overtaking her faltering attempts at rationality. Her skirt rippled in a short gust of wind, but the cold didn’t seem to register anymore.  

No matter that this was her aunt’s lover, or that he was a man near old enough to be her father, or even that his plans were nefarious and cruel; he wasn’t being _cruel_ to her then. Or perhaps he was; she couldn’t be sure if this was merely another part of his game…woo the widow, tempt the girl, leave a wealthy man.  

But in the end, what did she have to lose? Her parents was dead, siblings far and away, and she had no friends to console her. Her aunt carried nothing save open disdain for the orphaned niece, and her suitor was an awful boy with heavy pockets. She had nothing and no one, but she might have him, if only for a little while.

She could taste it on his breath, a minty flavour, something sweet and fresh, and she wanted more. “ _Petyr_.” Words whispered into his mouth, more maturely said than a girl her age ought to be speaking, but neither seemed to care.  

Where the man exercised restraint, limiting himself to a lingering press, she found herself unable to meet that same level of control. With one hand still at his neck, the arm almost awkward between them, she pushed back against him, meeting his lips in a full connection.

 

**[Petyr]**

There was almost sadness in her voice as she asked that question, a sense of ache and longing. It caused a pain deep in Petyr’s chest, a pain of recognition that he was quick to kill. It was best not to get too lost this evening, to not lay himself completely bare.

“Has no one ever said that to you before?” His voice was low, stripped of artifice. He wondered if she would notice, feared that she would.  

Before she could answer his name slipped from her lips, swallowed by his mouth, and he groaned in response, in unmistakable pleasure at seeing her control slip. 

And it continued to be stripped away, until _she_  came to _him._

Sansa surprised him, he had to admit. He had not expected her to push herself fully off the edge, to give herself so freely to him. His fingers tightened against the skin of her neck, against the silk of her dress, locking her against him lest she should disappear. The kiss was innocent for a half-second, just the barest touching of lips, but he pushed on, delirious from the closeness of her. 

He opened his mouth then, tasted her. She was sweet on his lips, on his tongue, the small sips of wine she had had at dinner lingering about her mouth. _Starved._

“Sansa…” he muttered against her mouth. Her name sounded so good in this context, almost a groan against her, illicit and all too sweet. With the slightest of shifts he adjusted himself so that his knee was between her legs. It was not proper at all but he thought nothing of propriety at this moment, not when he was liable to drown in her presence. 

 

**[Sansa]**

Was this what a kiss was meant to feel like? If so, she’d never had a proper kiss before that moment. Prior embraces paled in comparison; her experiences were limited to clumsy, damp attempts at affection or the hasty, crushing meeting of boys her own age. And never had she been the one initiating it, pressing her eager mouth to another’s. 

He didn’t push her away; there was no sign of rejection as he caged her further, opening her mouth without a second of protest from her. The lack of company, the dark backdrop, it no longer worried her. It seemed the perfect location for it, the complete lapse of judgement by both parties.  

Her name, _her name_ , in response to his, spoken like a man aiming to devour. The terrible thing, the thing she was beginning to have trouble denying, was that she might let him. His knee moved then, moved somewhere indecent. Instead of pulling away or halting the man’s lewd motion, she let out a quiet gasp, her inexperience betraying her.  

Sansa’s legs spread, the thin skirt hitching up slightly. Her free arm was finally directed into action, finding purchase on his shoulder, an attempt to support herself. A throbbing started, spurred on by the man’s leg, and she nearly lost herself completely.  

But even mostly lost, practicality nettled the back of her thoughts. She withdrew infinitesimally, her mouth not quite leaving his. When she spoke, it was in a breathy sigh: “Someone could walk out, someone could _see_.” Even in the dark, she was certain the two forms could be discerned, if someone was inclined to open the nearest door and peek out. Still, she did not push him away, instead choosing the decidedly more reckless route, opening her mouth to him again, enjoying the freedom she found there.

 

**[Petyr]**

She clung to him, her hands finding steadier purchase against his lean frame, her body bending to his. She did nothing to stop his advances, instead submitting with unmistakable pleasure, a gasp of innocence on her lips. She was a delicate thing under his hands, that much was true, but she went about this act with a boldness that spurred him on. 

He pressed into her harder, her skit rising slightly at the action, his body angled in such a way to prevent him from giving his need entirely away. 

Sansa broke long enough to speak words of caution. It was not just the words of a virginal girl, it was sense. Someone could see, someone could tell. He did not intend to linger here long yet he did not want his hand to be forced just this soon. He was quick on his feet, that much was true, but such exits were best not rushed. 

She spoke words of sense and then kissed him, clearly giddy in the illicitness of the act. His mouth twisted in a grin under hers. All he had expected to find in her was there, waiting. 

Petyr pulled back away, as horrid as that was. He stole a glance to the glowing house, his hands still gripping her–not willing to relinquish her.”You’re right.”

But he did not pull away. He did not lead her back inside, as he should. Out here, with only the quietness of nature around, with her warmth and her scent pressed against him, with the taste of her on his mouth, he could not. 

He pulled away but gripped her hand, tight. Without looking back he pulled her behind him, away from the house, further into the dark. Off the path, past the brush, past the shed, out of sight.

 

**[Sansa]**

When he looked to the house, Sansa assumed the man was conceding her point. She assumed, as any rational girl would, that the kiss would be broken, her elder seeing the reason in her words. And the kiss did break, the man was the one to sever their connection, but the dance did not end. 

Her hand was in his then, a hold that did not leave room for contest. She wouldn’t have contested anyway; the decision had been made, after all. He’d left his mark, and she’d let him. Some amalgamation of curiosity and lust propelled her feet to follow his, trumping all other nagging emotions.  

Away and away she was pulled, feeling almost as if her body was an afterthought to the idea of her. Beyond the light, beyond the vision of anyone who might be willing to help a girl caught in a trap, she was led into the unknown.  

“Mr. Baelish?” She spoke so softly he might not have even heard her then. And was she worried someone would hear? They were too far away for anyone in the home to pay any mind. Perhaps it was the ghost of her mother she feared, disappointed in her actions. “Where are you taking me?”  

In the light of day she knew the estate well enough; the nooks and hideaways, the little ponds and hills. That same land shrouded in darkness proved difficult for her to navigate after the shed was passed, her eyes slowly adjusting to the night. 

Mingled with the fear, and only compounded by his urgency and by the heat of his hand, there was a desperate need to continue what they’d started against the wall. Her thumb grazed the sensitive inside of the man’s wrist, a delicate gesture in his firm grip. _A plea._

 

**[Petyr]**

He kept his eyes on the path ahead, not daring to glance back at his partner. Part of this was out of necessity, for the path ahead was a tricky one, brush and dips obscured by the low light. Part of this was out of superstition. In some illogical part of his mind he had the idea that, were he to look back, she would be lost to him.

Cat’s daughter. An eager pupil. A girl of innocence and need. It was all so perfect, and experience had taught him it was liable to break apart at any moment. 

He ignored her question in favor of plunging deeper into the dark. The swipe of her finger against his wrist only enticed him more. He could feel the heat of her even at this distance, unique in the summer air. He could still taste her. 

He needed more. 

Petyr led her into a small grove of trees, careful not to let her trip over the desperate branches that were close to the soil. There he turned on her and without force backed her against a tree.

Her eyes shown slightly in the light of the fresh moon. Her lips were red from kisses and, if only for this briefest of moments, she was his. 

“You have no love for her either,” were the words he chose to break that silence. _You would not be here if you did._ He did not allow Sansa to answer. Instead his hands found her, gripping the soft flesh tight. His mouth found her, rough now, confident that they would not be seen.

 

**[Sansa]**

A sure hand led her to their destination, and a surer voice posed a question. But there was no time for a response from her, not when they were alone, far away from those who might catch a glimpse. The only eyes that pried then were his, leaden green and hungry and for her.

The kiss that followed served to answer him without words; she met his harsh press, her mouth opening up to him in a newly learned motion. _No, I have no love for her._

One of her hands reached up and up. Fingers twined into the short hair at his temple, the way she’d watched it done at the theatre. It was exploratory as opposed to conquering. _Is this okay_ , her movements asked; _show me how, the path is unfamiliar and strange._

The tree, one she might have remembered amongst the others if there were a few more stars to light the grove, dug into her back. She barely noticed; instead, it was the burning grip at her waist that kept her preoccupied. His biting touch radiated, nerve endings alight; it was something new, something she wanted to chase and run after, whatever the consequences might be.

“Please.” The girl begged, her free hand reaching for his wrist, wrapping her small fingers around. She pulled, unsure of what she wanted, unsure of where she wanted his hand.

That throbbing returned, all thoughts flung aside, replaced with the taste of his tongue, his soft hair in her hold. She arched into him, pressing her chest against his. A soft moan was drawn from her, as hard as she tried to stifle it, and she hoped he did not hear.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her movements were only slightly stilted, her unease only partly felt. She touched him gingerly, clearly trying to get a feel for what it was he wanted, trying to learn how to respond to him. And Petyr complied, leaning into her touch, guttural gasps leaving his mouth when she moved just so. 

And he was not a selfish partner. He shifted his body this way and that, listened to her soft sighs of pleasure, her sharp gasps. He wanted to know what pleased her. If she was going to open up to him like this, if she was going to twine herself about him, he wished for her to have nothing but enjoyment. 

“ _Please_ ,” she urged him on, and the word could be so many things. An invitation to more physicality was the most likely, though he read in it something more abstract–the need to take her not just _now_ , but _away_. To sprint her away from this dust and decay and drag her down his path. There was nothing for her here and soon enough there would be nothing for him. There was _so much_  out there.  

 _Please_. The word echoed in his ears. Her hand was on his, unsure, clearly hoping he would rest it _somewhere._

The path was an easy choice. He rested his palm on her side, brought it around to cup a breast. The fabric of her dress was thin; he could feel her heart beating through the soft weight in his hand. He looked at her then, their lips somewhat apart, looking for some sort of confirmation that this was right. 

“Sweetling,” he breathed against her lips. She was so young, so inexperienced, the possibilities so enticing. He pressed against her, his other hand gripping the fabric at her waist, pulling. _Tell me you want this._

 

**[Sansa]**

It wasn’t right. It would never be right. _But it didn’t matter._

The girl couldn’t think, she couldn’t focus; she had a single goal, an odd sort of tunnel vision. He was the centre, his mouth, needy just like hers, his hands wandering unrestricted, opening her up. She wanted to run, run far away from him, she never wanted him to stop. She was split down the middle, between the girl she ought to be and the girl she was in that moment.  

Her hand pulled, and his moved, complying with her plea, up to a breast. She stifled another moan into his mouth, thankful for their embrace to conceal the noises she made. Her hand stayed at his wrist, keeping him there lest he change his mind.

And what would he like in response? He was so confident, perhaps she could be that way too. Her grip on his wrist loosened, fingers reaching for that familiar perch on his collar. Index and thumb drew apart button from eye, releasing the first securing on his shirt. The fabric was new, expensive, wrought from cloth much finer than hers. She enjoyed the feel of it between digits as she pried apart a second button, a questioning look on her face. 

The material at her waist shifted, and she wanted him to feel her, his skin against her. When he said the word, a term of affection, Sansa nodded. It was a barely perceptible shift of her head, but he would see.   

The man was so close, closer than anyone else had ever been, and yes, of course she wanted it. “Will you take anything with you, when you leave?” _Will you take me with you?_ His response wouldn’t steer the course for the evening, she was already bound to him. Sansa was too far gone for the dance to end, dizzy on the newness of it.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her answer to his mental plea was just as silent, nothing but pleasurable moans escaping her lips. She was a needful creature, just like him, and he was more than happy to oblige her. His hand at her breast gripped, caressed, felt her through the thin silk. A far more intimate touch than he would have expected this evening, and just the beginning of things. 

Though it almost ended when she joined him in his exploration, when her fingers began to pry at his shirt, when she looked at him with searching eyes. 

The feeling that arose in him was swift, and though he was able to keep himself from pulling away he was less certain none of it reached his gaze. She would see soon enough, of course, she would know, but he did not wish her to come to that unprepared. He did not want her to bare his chest and feel the twisted flesh of his scar and look at him with pity in her eyes. He did not want to ruin this moment with questions, with the chance of revulsion. But he did not wish to pull away, to break her confidence–he was not entirely certain he would get it back. 

Instead he moved closer to her, his lips going from hers to the lovely line of her neck. He nipped at the pale, unmarred flesh there; he lavished her with kisses, he pressed against her until he was certain the tree must be digging into her back. Sansa’s question came on short breath and he could practically hear her heart beating. 

He pulled away, his lips grazing the flesh he had been biting. He smiled against it, half-wondering if he would leave a mark. 

“Would you like that?” His hand at her skirt moved up, up, up, until he could slip beneath, until he could feel the heat of her skin. He grazed the edges of what he knew was a bruise, his touch nothing but gentle. “You could have it so much _better._ ”

 

**[Sansa]**

 For a moment, for a few fleeting seconds, she thought she might have ruined it. There was a pause from him, a brief but halting thing, barely visualised in the unilluminated grove. What had she done wrong? Were her attempts at sensuality poorly done? Her fingers stopped their fumbling at his collar, waiting.  

But that moment passed, and she found herself pinned further against the tree. Any doubts she had were swiftly brushed aside again with his renewed interest. The bark wore against her back, her dress shirt doing little to protect her skin, now surely marked with abrasions. They would be there in the morning, she was certain, a reminder of what had transpired.  

Perhaps she would show him.  

The contrast was a torment as his mouth moved to her neck, biting, while his touch remained benign, carefully caressing her breast. And the sensation of it! It was so unlike what she’d been expecting, so much better. Shamefully, she wondered if he could feel her nipple harden beneath the shirt.  

Her other hand, the one scorned from advancing the trek down his clothes, anchored to his bicep, urging him on at her thigh. The bruise stung when he skimmed it, and she sucked in a breath; the touch only served to amplify the throbbing below her abdomen.  

“ _Yes, Petyr_.” Although it couldn’t be said what she was committing to; his proposition or merely for his clever fingers to continue. She pressed back against the man she barely knew, her body moulding into his, and she could feel his hardness against her.  

“Don’t leave me here, with her.” A clearer answer, then, and spoken with an innocent girl’s voice. Would he leave her there, destitute, after he was finished? There was no reason to take her away, to take her anywhere; none that she could discern, anyway. 

 

**[Petyr]**

Her plea hung on the cooling, quiet summer air. 

It resonated in mind, clear and precise. With those words he was hit by how unmistakably young she was. In those words was the clinging nature of a young girl, of a young person, who had been presented with a brighter future and were desperate to not let it leave their grasp. Such a sensation it was, that intense clawing at something greater. He remembered it well. 

She was pressed against him. He could no longer hide the feel of his cock at this angle, desperate in its own way. He needed to have her, defile her, take her and make her. There was no denying it and so he pressed and _pressed_ , and let her know, giving her the chance to back down.

He suspected she wouldn’t. Her hand was with his under her dress, enticing him up. He touched the bruise gingerly, then beyond it, grazing the edge of her undergarments with even more care, his breathing heavy in her ear. 

“You need a dress to match that brooch.” Petyr could picture her, clad in silks and furs and jewels won with her own mind. He saw her draped in such things, saw the thanks in her eyes when she looked at him.  

He kissed her jawline then, his fingers curling in the lower garment, his nails scrapping her skin. Marking, always marking. “I won’t. I don’t think she’ll be very pleased with you.” A definite promise then, one he did not make lightly. 

And then he pulled his hand down, his fingers taking that silken garment as a prize.

 

**[Sansa]**

His breath at her ear sent a small tremor down her neck. Somehow, he knew just what to do to make her shudder. And when he spoke of a dress, bringing his mouth to her jaw, she closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the idea, the feeling. She could almost see herself in it, an expensive and lovely garment, her arm wrapped around his.  

The fantasy was pushed aside quickly; she’d told herself not to indulge in them anymore. Her reality was captivating enough anyway. A hardness pressed against her, betraying the man’s own arousal, and she felt absurdly proud for half a second that she was the sole cause of it. Fingers still at his scalp kept their hold, fingernails gently digging in, urging him on.  

“She won’t be pleased with you, either.” But it was the promise of escape, the hope that the man might actually be true to his word, that kept her near. Perhaps it was a young girl’s folly, to think a swindler might be tamed. Perhaps she simply needed something good to cling to, a tether to keep herself steady.  

Cool air could be felt between her legs, exposed to the night. Her eyes opened in a slow drag, shyness creeping in amongst the frenzy. Did he know how truly inexperienced she was?  

“I’ve never-” _Never been led into solitude with a near stranger. Never done something so reckless. Never been touched this way before._    
She thought she knew what might come next, discerned from cautionary tales told by her mother years before. At the time it had been so cryptic, and more of a warning than simple education on the matters of love and affection.  

A whisper on her lips, it might have been his name, and her mother hadn’t prepared her for this. 

 

**[Petyr]**

_No, Lysa would not be pleased._ The idea brought a mocking smile to his lips. “Then we are exactly alike,” he said, teeth grazing her flesh. The statement was meant to be light but it did not come out that way. It spilled from his mouth as a bitter truth. 

But any thought of Lysa was quickly swept beside by the soft sighs he was drawing from the girl’s mouth, from the gasps and mews he pulled forth. Petyr closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself to merely enjoy this, to enjoy the simplicity of _want_. He could have his physical needs met whenever he so desired, by Lysa or a maid or a hundred other women. But few could cause such a pull inside him, could almost overwhelm him like this. It was a feeling meant to be savored, a rarity that he had never expected and was not likely to feel again.

But his hands moved on. Her undergarments were now tangled about her knees, trapping her for his pleasure. 

Through his kisses he could feel the heat rise in her flesh, the virginal blush. He pulled his face away then with a guttural growl, meeting her eyes, though his hands remained where they were. One was fondling a hardened nipple through cheap silk, moving toward the buttons that held up her last scrap of modesty. The other was drifting up her inner thigh, eager to experience a different kind of heat. 

Despite his need, he figured it would be best to give her an out. “Do you wish for me to stop?” The question seemed absurd on his lips, especially when his searching hand found what it so desired. She was hot between the legs, a heat different from the blush, and so wet he barely had to touch her for his fingers to be coated. He cupped her mound gently, one finger teasing her slit, his next words strained. “You’ve never been with a man, have you?” He was uncertain if he completely held the _thrill_  in his voice at that. 

 

**[Sansa]**

Were they the same? They felt the same, fitting together, establishing a new sort of rhythm. There was something inside of her, something that flourished under his touch. It was strange and familiar, it was intoxicating. Surely the feeling was mutual; the noises he made in tandem with her own could not be fabricated.

When he looked at her, posing a question, giving her a choice, she paused. She could stop it, she could walk away. Her aunt would never need to know, and the man would be gone soon enough. Or, she could tell, she could warn her relative, urge her to toss Petyr Baelish aside, and she would be able to continue some semblance of a normal life.

But the decision was made already, a pact initiated with a brooch and nearly signed. There would be no normal life for the girl.    
Her hand lifted up, leaving his arm, and came to rest on his cheek. She grazed the skin, the short bristles of hair found there, and the touch was somewhere near to tender.

His hand was warm when it found her, so near to wear a pulsing throb was building. There was a dampness there as well, but any embarrassment was forgotten when a lithe finger toyed with her, teasing.

“No.” _Keep touching me_. Her knees parted, instinct overtaking any lingering propriety, allowing him better access. She left the gentle hold on his face, wrapping her arm around his neck to bring them closer. “Will you teach me?”   Lips parted, she brought her mouth to his, eager to quiet her own pleas, eager for more.

 

**[Petyr]**

He kissed her as gently as he could, considering the circumstances, her words. He did not wish to frighten her with his eagerness. That would not be beneficial to any lesson. 

Sansa was opening herself to him, her legs spreading underneath his hand, her mouth parting for his. This was a precious gift he was being given and he must cherish it. 

And so he returned her kiss with passion, but care, trying not to press too hard. He teased her lightly below, conscious of the fact that no other man had done this before, allowing her a chance to get used to the sensation. 

After a few heated moments Petyr pulled back in order to speak, to get a better look at her. She was eager, flushed. She was his. 

“I will,” he promised, his voice low, It was hard keep the desire out, hard to maintain any sort of authority. “I will teach you a great many things.” 

A finger eased forward to circle her clit, to press against it. He wondered if she had ever been touched there at all, if she had ever explored her body. Long fingers, coated with her, then moved backward, one entering her slowly. He could picture how the scent of her would linger after this, how the feel of her would resonate in his hand. He needed more, he need _all._

With his finger resting inside her, movements slow, his other hand began to undo the buttons of her dress, his eyes never leaving hers. 

 

**[Sansa]**

There was another promise there, and now she was more confident in his words. He spoke with the insinuation of something more, of further sordid lessons. The man would teach her, he would show her how. And the terrible truth of it, as she allowed him to see more, feel more of her: _she would enjoy every moment of it._

This was a descent, a spiral into some unknown world, and was being yanked into it willingly. The course would be unwieldy, she was bright enough to know that much, but it seemed a smart move; placing her bets on the cleverer person. And what’s more, the look he gave her, the feel of him, allowed no room for dispute.  

His finger moved beyond the throbbing, and she could not help the moan that followed when that digit filled her. Is this how a man would feel, stretching and pushing into her?  

The back of the man’s shirt became the mainstay for her unsteady body, gripping it over his shoulder, hoping it would be enough to keep her balance. Her legs did not feel reliable enough to support her, and the undergarments at her knees only served to trap her further.  

Her hips began to move, chasing the sensation he’d initiated at her nub. It was slow, it was perfect torture as she searched against him. Any curious and shameful exploration she’d done on her own paled in comparison; each time the man advanced, pushed further, yielded new sounds from her, heady and wanting. The noises might have carried in the grove, but there would be no one near enough to hear.  

The buttons of her dress were pulled apart one by one, and how was his hand so stable and sure? She supposed he must be practiced, experience leading his movements, and she wondered, in the fog of her avidity, what he might like in return. 

And so she asked, in the same small way that a student might ask a teacher. “May I touch you?”  

 

**[Petyr]**

Sansa’s frame was loose against him, her hands grasping at his fine shirt for support, her hips a fluid roll that didn’t even bother to attempt to hide her pleasure at his touch. Petyr thought it his duty to keep her upright, to ensure that this experience was as fine as it could be, and so he kept his own awe in check as best her could. A guttural moan, a stiffening of his back as she moved, as she brushed his cock, as the most beautiful, innocent, lustful tones spilled from her virgin lips–that was all he allowed himself.  

And he kept himself busy. His finger fucked her slowly, moving further and further inside with each stroke, his thumb pressing against her clit as he did so. She was as tight as he expected, and he could not linger long on the idea of what she would feel like wrapped about his cock, lest his composure completely broke. 

He needed to keep his authority, was thankful that she did not seem to notice any slips. And he prided himself on the fact that he seemed to do quite well, though in truth he pressed against her a bit harder than necessary, his need a bit more evident than he would have liked. 

His other hand released the last of her buttons and he stepped back only to slide the dress from her, his fingers leaving her wetness with a lurid sound. She stood before him in a thin slip, her lips red from his mouth, her eyes dazed, the flush of her skin protecting her from any coolness on the summer air. With a gentle smile he laid the dress over the branch of the tree, lest it come to ruin on the ground. 

His fingers slipped through the straps of her slip and that followed soon after, discarded on a branch, her underwear now tangled at her feet.

Even in the low light he could see how exquisite she was. Pale flesh that accented the red of her hair, the red between her legs. Her waist a perfect dip, her hips a gentle curve. And her breasts, small but full, firm and high, inviting him to pull her further down this path. 

“Sansa…” He name was harsh on his lips, torn from him. His fingers reached out to graze the side of her body with reverence, starting at her hip, feeling her flesh prickle in response. He ended at a breast, cupping the soft weight in his palm, fingers reaching out to tease a sensitive nipple.  

Did she _know_  how far gone he truly was?

It was then that he remembered her student’s voice, her question. He smiled, his other hand returning between her legs, entering her with two fingers this time. She was as slick as she could possibly be and he entered her with ease. 

“You may,” he responded. He wished to see what she would do but did not wish to repeat that chance encounter with his scar. His hand left her breast to cup hers, guiding her down without force, down to where his cock ached for contact.

 

**[Sansa]**

He pulled away, digit slipping out of her, and she was again worried she’d made a mistake. It was a thought that did not last long; the man had a mind to strip her. A dress, and then her shift, was carefully set aside, nothing left to protect her from the cool air, from the harsh bite of the tree’s bark. There was no barrier then, to protect herself from him.  

She was so exposed, so vulnerable, bare to him in the dark grove. Her first instinct was to cover her body, to cross her arms or cover the patch of hair between her legs, to hide away from him. That impulse was crushed, forced away when his touch returned, his fingers burning into her, a sharp contrast with the cold. 

The level of intimacy was as frightening as it was exciting then. Each move on his part, to her torso, to her breast, to tease her nipple, was met with nervous anticipation of what the man would do next. Would he take her? Perhaps not; his own form was still fully clothed, not a stitch out of place aside from the top buttons of his shirt.  

And yet, this was a side of him she wondered if many had witnessed. The ravenous look he wore, his open mouth, slack and hungry, the darkened eyes and hair mussed from her pleading perch; surely Lysa Arryn was not privy to this version of Petyr Baelish. And now that she knew him in this way, she wanted more of it, she wanted something hers and hers alone. She wanted to peel back the layers of the enigmatic crook, the way he was doing to her in that moment.  

This time, two fingers filled her, and the girl sighed in a keen sort of relief. Wasting no time, she found her response to the naive question as his hand guided hers down, down to the hardness she’d registered earlier, and her palm lightly grazed him through the fabric of his pants. But it wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel him in the same way he felt her, she wanted her skin against his.  

Slipping out of his hold, she reached for the button of his slacks, unclamping where it was secure and trying desperately to maintain her focus while he pumped his fingers inside of her. A small hand, tentative and slow and curious, reached in. She held him, warm and thick, between her fingers, a groan against him, satisfied with the new connection.  

Then, following the rhythm he’d set with his own hand, she began to stroke. Her free arm wrapped around him again, leveraging her weight so she could undulate into his hand, lost in chasing that growing pleasure.  

 

**[Petyr]**

He held his breath as her fingers undid him, as her hand slipped inside to wrap itself against his desire. Curious she was, exploring his body, but she did so with a boldness that only served to entice him further. He could not help but think of the times he had taken himself in hand and pictured _her_ , of the nights in which he took Lysa with Sansa’s image in his mind. Now, to actually have her, bare and wanting?

He wanted to take her there. Press her against the tree and fuck her, spill himself inside her, claim her innocence. But his rational mind override his lust. It was best to wait, to not rush her into something, to not give her too much too soon. The girl had never been touched by a man before and such things were best approached in steps, he knew. She would appreciate his care. 

Besides, she was his–the sweet sighs in his ear and the way she worked over his cock told him that. And there was something to be said for the thrill of anticipation. 

“Good,” he whispered along her jawline, lips traveling to her ear. He worked his hand a bit faster pressing against her, fingers now in to the knuckle. “Such a good pupil.” 

He moved ever so slightly to take her lips then, his hips rising to meet her hand. When he pulled away he smiled against her mouth, wicked. “ _So very wet_.”

 

**[Sansa]**

In her life, she’d learned it was a rarity to have the things truly desired; fantasies and dreams often just served to disappoint. It was a cruel lesson, but one she knew was best discovered early on.  

She’d imagined the first time a man would take her. A wedding night, a lovely gown, a smiling young man with kind eyes. She’d pictured his laugh as he carried her to a bed they would share, his delicate touch at her cheek before he kissed her, chaste and slow, on her lips.  

After that, the image blurred, revealing how naive she was, how unpracticed she was. Nowhere in the corners of her mind has she expected agile fingers to take her against a tree, or the bark she was pressed against to bite the way it did. She hadn’t planned to writhe, to whine the way she was; the unchaste searching of her hips might be better suited for a bar or brothel.  

And was she disappointed, her daydream gone horribly wrong? His words, his teasing murmurs against her, were a peculiar comfort. And no, her breathy moans as his fingers pressed deeper, did not betray a single ounce of disappointment. 

His pelvis lifted to meet her as she slid her hand up and down, up and down, reassuring her that she was pleasing him. And her own pace picked up with his, matching him, kissing him without reservation.  

His words, his terrible words, but how they made her ache. No one had ever said such things to her, but the jolt of shame, of her wetness, merely drove her hips faster against him. The throbbing was building, leading to something. She needed to find it, she needed it. “ _Petyr_ , I’m-” Did he _know_? Did he understand what she was feeling? The words escaped her, she could only focus on his hand, and on her own fingers wrapped around him.  

She could feel the fabric of his pants, feel her hand on his hardness, moving against her pale skin. The slacks had readjusted, sliding lower during their frenzy; when she looked down she could see the head of him, much larger than the fingers inside of her.  

 

**[Petyr]**

It was hard not to notice the expression that flirted across her face when she saw the full length of him. It was equally difficult not to feel this perverse sense of pride in the wideness of her eyes, in the hitch of her breath. 

“When you’re ready,” was his response to that, and he leaned in to kiss her gently on the forehead, on the lips. A bizarre contrast it was to the almost brutal way his hand was fucking her, but once he has started down that path it was hard to restrain himself, after all. Sansa Stark was open before him, his hand was buried between her legs. It was not a feast he wished to deny himself from. 

She was close to coming. He could hear it in the begging nature of his voice, feel in the way she clenched about him, see it in the wanton way she moved against the tree. She gripped at his back with one hand, the other not stopping her rapid movement on his cock. Her eyes were hooded, her cheeks flushed as she experienced this level of pleasure for the first time. A thousand wicked phrases came to mind but he let them die on his lips, careful not to scare her off completely. 

He could not, however, remain entirely silent. “Would you like to come, sweetling?” The words were said at her ear, on the tail end of a breath. His free hand ghosted back up her side to reclaim a breast, long fingers teasing and molding. 

 

**[Sansa]**

When he kissed her forehead it was almost kind; a strange thought considering the position she was in. _When you’re ready_ , he had said, and she believed it, absurdly. What evidence had the man given to prove his honesty? Despite that knowledge, and despite any rationality, she knew the path she would take.  

 _To come?_ Was that what she was careening toward, the feeling she sought? “Yes. _Yes._ ” The only response she could muster while his hand cupped a tender breast. There was nothing else, nothing save that hopeless, new search for whatever summit her body and his hand were bringing her to. Blindly, and in the most primal and animalistic way, her mind yielded at last. 

And that building feeling finally reached a peak. Under his machinations she was pushed off, mouth open in a silent keening. She clenched around him, pulling him deeper as every nerve lit up, starting at her core and radiating to curling toes and closed eyes. Her hand stilled around him, unable to focus on anything but the pleasure achieved through a lack of self restraint. 

For long seconds the girl could barely catch her breath as she came down from the high, her body relishing the rippling waves from her peak. Her grip loosened on his back, body relaxing in the sweetest way. A breathy question, and one that might have been directed to herself more than to the man: “Is that how it feels every time?”   

And she remembered her hand, and she remembered his own need. Sated eyes opened, lifting up to those hungry greenish-grey ones, and she began to stroke anew.

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched her, as fascinated as a man could be, as she broke for him. One would think, from the transfixed expression on his face, he had never seen a woman come before, but truly he never had, not like this. He had never had a creature as lovely as her, had never watched such pleasure at this new experience. 

Petyr savored it, committed it to memory. To the end of his days he wished to remember this, her expression, the feeling that swelled within him as she _tightened._ It almost made him forget his own need, hot and aching in her delicate palm. 

She spoke again in those lovely, innocent notes, her voice trembling, her excitement barely contained. He laughed, lightly–far from the mocking tones he had grown accustomed to–and kissed her once more, gently. “It’s better,” was his response and he had every intention of _making_  it better for her with his lips, with his cock. She was his now, his to have, and never again did he wish to pass the night without seeing that exquisite release cross her face. 

Sansa was watching him now, her eyes soft, her fingers returning to their appointed task. He sucked in a breath and gazed down between them, at her pale digits wrapped about his engorged length, an image he had never expected to see outside of his fantasies.   
Her grip was solid, good enough considering her lack of experience, but he wanted nothing more than to lose himself, to share in the level of ecstasy he had granted her. Her fingers were soft about him but unsteady, the remnants of her orgasm spilling though her. 

“Here,” he breathed. His fingers left her core with a lurid suck. “Let me help.”

His coated hand wrapped about hers, showing her the right level of pressure to give him, the right stroke. His eyes did not leave hers, the intense expression on her face, their shared breath, quickening his release. 

It only took a few seconds to bring him off. His orgasm poured out of him with a deep groan, his hand tightening on hers as he spilled himself, the seed coating their fingers, spilling against her pale stomach. The image of it, glistening in the moonlight, only intensified the waves of pleasure taking him over. His hand on her breast tightened, nails digging into the skin, curses spilling from his lips as he fell against her. 

 

**[Sansa]**

His hand covered hers, slick with the same wetness still cooling between her legs, and the man showed her just the right way to move, to extract that same blinding sensation from him. And instead of closing his eyes like she had, he stared, watching her watching him. It was enough to make her light-headed, the way he seemed to see inside of her, see _through_ her.  

In those seconds, following the pumping motions he led, she came to a startling realisation: she was unraveling him. In the same way he drove her into a frenzy, her own fingers were doing the same, unhinging a carefully composed fraud, prying him open, open like she was. It was something she would not forget; that look, that need.  

And with a final groan he tensed, warm liquid spilling out of him, marking her digits, her stomach. It was obscene; she was coated in him, stained by the same man who would fall asleep next to her aunt later in the night. 

His hand at her breast would surely leave a bruise, then. The girl’s small hand left the softening part of him, placing her own over his, urging him on with her slick fingers. Against the tree, with no space left between them, she was spent.  

No longer steered by uncompromising desire, worry began to seep in with nothing left to fend it off. She needed to clean herself up, she needed her clothes. What would the maids say, when they saw her walk in from the darkness, hair mussed and smelling of sweat and need? Would Lysa know?

It was enough to make her shiver, paired with the cool night. She swallowed, pulling her hand away from him, looking to his face again. “What are we going to do?”

 

**[Petyr]**

He only had time to take a few shuddering breaths, seed and sweet cooling on his skin, before she spoke again, her voice tinged with fear. 

He kissed her, his lips lingering over hers, hoping to relieve some of the tension she felt. She was pressing her soiled hand against her breast, urging him to leave further marks on her skin. Some remnant of tonight, perhaps, to hold with her when they went back to the house.

Petyr knew he must take the lead in this. He pulled away and back, just enough to reach into his pocket and bring out a fine handkerchief. Without a blush he moved to clean her off between her legs, her desire darkening the silk. He then moved to wipe off the evidence on her stomach, on their hands, until their combined fluids had completely stained Lysa’s gift. It went back into his pocket, a memento, his own remnant. 

“We are going to act like nothing is amiss. I’ll see you back out of the grove. You slip in the side entrance and make your way back to your rooms without seeing a maid. I’ll handle Lysa.” He kissed her again, unable to resist her pull. “Do you think you can do that for me, sweetling?” 

 

**[Sansa]**

The cloth ran against her, delicately, wiping the still warm stains from her skin. It was a relief when the dampness was gone, worked away by his fingers until her flesh appeared clean. But it lingered; she could feel the marks there, deeper than the superficial layer, and she didn’t know how to wipe that away.

She didn’t know if she wanted to.

At his instruction she nodded, trusting him to know what to do, reassured by the soft kisses he planted. He was just as responsible in this matter; he had just as much to lose in being discovered. This alone gave her a reason to do as he said.

And so she reached for her shift and dress, attempting to cover herself as much as possible, modesty returned. She pulled the garments over her body, hiding the scratches on her back from the tree, the pink marks on her pale skin. Fingers brushed through her hair, untangling the messy auburn, and she felt almost like herself again.

She did as he advised, slinking in through the side door, no maids in sight. Sansa followed the less traveled route to her room, and when she closed the door behind her she pressed her back to the wood, sliding down to the floor. The events of the evening replayed in her head a hundred times, and each time she reached a different conclusion, until weariness overtook her. 

What would he tell her aunt? Would she ask where he’d been, where Sansa had been? It was a thought better left for the morning, she decided, curling her arms around her knees and resting her chin against them until she settled into a doze.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr led her out of the woods, as promised, their steps as silent as could be across the dying earth. He kept a hand at the small of her back throughout, lest she stumble and fall, until they reached the light of the house. 

It stood there, stark against the dark, and it was as if nothing had changed. 

The air between them, however, was heightened it a way it had never been before. Anyone who knew what they were looking for could tell that something had transpired, though Petyr Baelish was a man much used to hiding such things. He did so now, even with his skin still retaining the thought, the scent of her. He made sure she made it through the side door okay, watching from the distance with hands buried deep into pockets (the handkerchief tangled about his fingers). until it was safe for him to enter from the porch with his usual step. 

Upstairs, he walked past Lysa’s door, her lamplight noticeable at the threshold. He went to his own rarely used rooms first, stripped himself, and regretfully scrubbed away any trace of her. 

The handkerchief was neatly folded and placed in his locked trunk. 

When he went to Lysa, late, it was with an easy smile. He saw the worry in her eyes but he took her with such desire that any objection she had soon died. 

He was grateful for the images he now possessed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**[Petyr]**

In the morning he breakfasted with his benefactor, only half-listening to her talk about the charity event she was to go to later, and how Petyr _must_  get involved. His mind, truthfully, was a daze, not helped when Sansa finally appeared as her aunt was finishing the last of her food. 

He could not keep his eyes from her. 

“I figured you would sleep the whole day away,” Lysa snapped, looking to Petyr for support. He studied her face, giving her a half-smile when he saw nothing beyond the usual disdain there.  

 

**[Sansa]**

She found her bed sometime in the middle of the night, serenaded by the all too familiar sounds resonating from her aunt’s room. The noises nettled her, dug into her chest in a way they hadn’t before, as she removed the dress and sunk onto the mattress, pleased to feel the cool sheets against her scraped back.  

When she finally woke the sun was higher than she was used to, and her first thought was to skip breakfast. A voice in the back of her head reminded her then, to act as though nothing was amiss, and so the girl journeyed to the washroom, cleaning herself up before dressing for the day.  

And the stains were still there, unseen but entirely felt. _And would he see them?_

There was a relief in her, hidden under courtesy, when she met his eyes. They carried that same look behind them, the wanting, before returning to her aunt’s. He had weaved a convincing tale for her then, not that she had truly doubted him.  

She expected the biting tone from her aunt, and met it with her common enough reply. “I’m not feeling well this morning.” Sansa spoke, taking her usual seat. And it wasn’t untrue, although the girl was positively starving. Keeping to her lie, however, she chose a slice of bread to break her fast, nibbling at the end while her aunt watched. 

Sansa had learned in her short time with her aunt that distraction was key in avoiding irritation; and nothing distracted Lysa Arryn more than talking about herself. “Dear aunt, have you decided on which dress you’ll wear tonight?” She looked to her then, staring at the woman’s empty plate, wondering if she would take the bait or leave. Her relative grabbed the napkin at her lap, tossing it onto the white cloth covering the table.  

Her gaze drifted to the man for a moment as she reached for the butter. _Can you see the stains on me?_

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr watched from his perch, eyes hooded, as Sansa quickly dismissed her aunt. _Such skill_. His lips moved from their mockery of a smile to something more genuine, the corner of his mouth pulled up. 

Soon enough they were alone, in the dusty summer morning. Lysa’s retreating voice drifted down the hallway, ordering the servants to make themselves useful, until finally the space between them was too great. Not a sound could be heard outside the parlor door; the only thing disturbing the silence was the song of birds. 

Of course, Petyr knew well enough that servants had quiet feet. Without a word he stood and made his way to each door, slowly opening them with a soft hand. Confident that they were indeed alone he returned and raised his tea. 

He looked at Sansa in the fresh morning light. Her skin had a flush to it he had not seen before, and though her dress was modest he thought he could see every mark he left on her. She carried herself well, without shame, despite the stains he had seen on her mere hours before. The memory of it resonated him, and he found himself gripping at his napkin with one hand. 

“Did you sleep well?” An innocent question, but not the way he phrased it; not combined with the way he looked at her. He set his tea down and reached to offer her a plate of fruit.  

 

**[Sansa]**

She noticed she’d left no marks on him, nothing like the ones the girl wore. His neck was without a pinkish hue, his jaw set without a reminder of her kiss. The man’s back might possess a scratch or two, or his shirt stretched a bit from her frantic, grasping hold, but in the end there would be no lingering thing to show what had transpired.

But his stare _did_ show it, his tightened hold on his napkin. She was learning to pay attention to the small things, the intricacies hidden behind the obvious. And she needed to learn; the man was dangerous, she could not allow herself to forget it. He was dangerous and a swindler and she still wanted him.  

“I did.” A small lie, and one that might have been convincing enough. She’d tucked her doubts, her worry, deep inside until she returned to her room, away from the man with the piercing eyes. “And yourself?” A trace of a small, almost shy, touched the edges of her lips. 

She picked a grape from the plate offered to her, delicately popping it into her mouth. Blue flicked down to the hand holding the tray, the clever fingers that worked her over not terribly long ago.

Sansa swallowed the fruit. “Will you be joining her tonight?” The girl wasn’t important enough to warrant an invitation, her aunt had reminded her of that several times throughout the week. “I think she’ll be wearing that blue dress.” A hideous thing, several sizes too small for her figure, and a gaudy teal hue unfit for such an event.  

“It is sure to be a dull affair, or so I’ve been told.”

 

**[Petyr]**

He noted the pointed way she watched him, the heat in her gaze. He was conscious of the fact that he was being observed, with far more care than he was used to from anyone. Her gaze was obvious, of course, her skills still unpolished, but there was still the unmistakable need to understand him. To make note of his movements, his words, despite her clear desire for him. 

And _oh_ , the desire was still evident. He followed her gaze to his fingers, noticing the unmistakable air of remembrance in her eyes. Petyr could almost feel her heat on his digits, the warm wetness of her core. He coiled his finders against the lace of the tablecloth, watched her blue eyes follow this movement. His hands itched, eager to touch her once again, eager to soil themselves once more.

But such desires must remain in check, with no cloak of darkness protecting them now. 

Grey-green eyes noted the way she swallowed the fruit, the lovely line of her neck. Even though he was denied her touch he could still ravish her with his sight, pin her to her chair, indulge himself in the heat of her eyes. Her words were light, shy in a way that only further endeared him to her. 

“I slept perfectly well, thank you.” He took his own bite of food, his eyes not leaving hers. “Though I found it a bit hard to rest, I must admit, after last night.” A slight grin was shot her way. 

Her question about that evening, however, dampened his mood slightly. A groan, then a gaze upwards, where Lysa lingered above then. “I suppose I must.” Her remark about the dress only made him laugh, bitter. 

“Aren’t you lucky to be able to escape it?” Petyr leaned across the table then, unable to resist himself any longer, and grazed her hand with one finger. 

 

**[Sansa]**

“I’ve heard a glass of warm milk will do wonders to aid in a restful sleep.” She looked down to the remainder of her sparse meal, unable to hold his gaze for very long. “Or perhaps I could fetch you a small swig of whiskey next time?”

He commented on her luck, and the her neck tilted in a small nod. “I suppose so.” But truthfully, the girl might have enjoyed donning a lovely dress and mingling with the affluent families of her town. Some version of herself would always miss that life.

And of course the childish side of her could already see the man, locked arm and arm with her awful aunt, and she bristled. But _why?_ Lysa Arryn, as horrible as she was, thought the world of Petyr Baelish. She had no awareness of what he really was, of what he’d done in the cover of the grove. Of what he might do tomorrow or the next day.  

Sansa was sure the grove was not the end of it; the man’s eyes still aimed to devour.

That bristling softened at his touch, dangerous in the light of day. Still, she couldn’t resist turning her wrist to face her palm upward, allowing him access to the more sensitive flesh of her hand.

“Will you bring me back a slice of cake?” Her free hand reached for another piece of fruit, an apple slice this time, while her other rested beneath his finger. She offered the piece to him first, ever the polite young girl.

 

**[Petyr]**

Every movement she made was lovelier than the last, every dip of her head and soft blush. A tendril of auburn had come undone and he had to resit the urge to reach across the table and set it back into place. He knew, if he were to close the distance now, he would not be able to pull himself away, and that would be a very foolish thing indeed.  

No, he must content himself with the touch of her hand. She turned her wrist to give him access to her palm and he shuddered, his mind overwhelmed by need, by the reminder of what that hand had done last night. He could still feel himself locked within her slim fingers. It really was best to keep himself in check.

When she spoke of missing the event there was a young woman’s sadness in her voice, the longing for some grand party. Petyr should have known, he should have been sympathetic, for at her age he would wish nothing more than to dine with his betters, to feel a part of their circle. That was before, of course, he had begun to feed upon them, before that innocent longing had been snuffed out. For Sansa, however, it was still there. She still had much to learn. 

“You will attend more, better parties.” It was a promise. He pictured her then, dripping in silks and jewels and furs, the belle of any ball. Charming and sly and far too beautiful for any room, attracting admirers like flies to honey, her eyes always hot on Petyr.

Her glee, her success, his pride, his victory. It was almost as exquisite as any memory of last night. 

Lost in the daze, it took him a moment to note her words, her hand offering a piece of fruit. With a knowing smile he leaned forward, plucking it from her fingers with his teeth, drawing back in his chair to observe her as he ate.  

“Don’t worry, sweetling–I promise you you will not be forgotten.”  

Lysa’s voice was shrill on the hallway, heralding a return. Without another word Petyr stood and went to intercept the blow.

 

**[Sansa]**

The man took the apple slice between his teeth, and she wanted to feel it against her neck, she wanted the feel the tug of his teeth against her lip. And it was more than reprehensible, the way she was already nearly pulsing for him, aching with want, all from the stroke of his finger and leaden green eyes.

But then her aunt’s voice rang out in alarm, pulling them both from the moment. He pulled away, beckoned forth by his mark, leaving her entirely alone.

And alone she stayed. She wandered the estate, resting by a small pond while she watched birds swoop down to find their dinner. Sansa explored the dried out gardens lining the far edges of the property, the thistle creating thin runs in her old stockings. She occupied her time, waiting, until at last she saw the shiny black car leave the winding drive as dusk crept in, signaling to her that it was safe to return.

 _You won’t be forgotten._ The words had been a constant comfort throughout the day. She wore them, a reminder, a promise. 

When she finally ventured inside the girl had a bath, enjoying the warmth and the solitude, with no snapping aunt to tell her she was taking too long, or wasting too much water. She cleaned herself of the remaining scent of him, confident of future meetings to replace the smell. And still, she felt him on her. 

She fell asleep on her bed, atop the blankets, a book half open in her hand. Dozing, quite unaware of her surroundings, she did not wake when an edge of light crept in, the door to her room slowly opening. 

 

**[Petyr]**

There was a time when such an event would be all-important to his well-being. It was a chance to connect, after all, to locate marks with more wealth than sense. To dine with his supposed betters, secure in the knowledge that they had nothing more than some ill-gotten money and names. It was a chance to secure his foothold in this realm. Even with Lysa clinging to him such a party was not be be missed–after all, if he were to misstep with the Arryn widow, perhaps he could find his landing there.

But tonight? The whispers and stares were more than passed over, he simply failed to see them. The party was a din in his ears, each guest more faceless than the last. The wealth dripping from them, the status they had never earned, it was all worthless. He felt a dull ache, unable to do much but think of her. He could picture her quite clearly, charming to room with that instinctive way of hers, those blue eyes flitting back at him every so often. _Am I doing well? Are you pleased?_

His promise to her hung in his mind, drummed in his ears. His hands burned. The wine and food did nothing for his appetite. He would never be appeased staying in this room, not unless he had his pupil with him. 

Of course, such shared events were to come. But until then, he could have _her._  

As the night grew long Lysa grew drunk. Never one comfortable with wine she was soon slumped in a corner, muttering half-thought ideas to a group of harridans. Petyr exited as soon as her sight left him, an excuse already in his mind (she had talked to a man, he grew jealous, and now he must try to forgive) and made his way home quick. He did not know how long she would linger, he did not know how long they would have. 

The house was nearly dark, the servants enjoying their time off. He slipped upstairs on soft feet, hands shoved in pockets, eyes fixed on a door he had seen but never entered. There was no light there, though that did not matter.

It was unlocked, expecting. 

She rose with his entrance, blinking out a sleep. The door opened and closed with barely a sound, though the click of the lock could be heard well enough. Petyr leaned against the door, smiled broadly in the dark. 

“There was no cake, I’m afraid.” 

 

**[Sansa]**

Foggy blue eyes opened, adjusting to the darkness in an unfocused squint. The girl brought the back of her hand to her lids, softly rubbing them to expedite the process. At first she thought it might have been a maid, so dark the room was, but as her vision cleared she saw a decidedly more masculine build leaning against the door. 

Who else could it have been, really? The maids rarely paid her any mind, now that the gossip of her dead family was replaced with her aunt’s torrid affair. The thought of a visit from Lysa Arryn herself was certainly not entertained in her mind. And any fantasies of her brothers or uncles coming to rescue her had been brushed aside long ago.  

No, she knew it could only be him. Strange, then, that she was not disappointed.  

He seemed in good spirits, and her first notion was that the evening had ended early. “There’s always cake at charity events. Or at least chocolates.” The girl tilted her mouth in response to the smile barely caught in shadows. “Otherwise my aunt wouldn’t attend them.”  
   
The man was in his element; the life he had slowly conned his way into. Even without the light she could see him clearly; a clean new suit, impeccable cufflinks, not a hair out of place. There was no way to deny he was terribly handsome. She wanted to run her fingers though those graying temples, she wanted to tangle herself into him.  

But the levity did not last long as she set the book aside, crossing her arms to cover herself in her white nightgown. _Control yourself, you stupid girl._ “What are you doing here?” And the more important question, as the girl looked around the room, as if her aunt might jump out of the chest of drawers or the nightstand: “Where is she?”

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched as she folded into herself, a tone of endearing, unnecessary modesty overtaking her. Sansa sat in stark contrast to the women at the event, her hair unbound, her face unmade, a thin slip of a nightgown the only thing she wore. And yet she shone in a way they didn’t, her pale face shifting in and out of the moonlight as she glanced, nervous, about her chambers.

There had been cakes, of course, sweets beyond belief. He had seen Lysa devour them as quickly as she did wine. Unfortunately he had forgot to grab any, lost as he was in the fog of his mind. “Ah–sorry to arrive empty handed. I could return?”

Confident that she would not ask such a thing of him he slid out of his loafers so that he could cross the distance between them on quiet feet. The only sounds that greeted them were those of the night beyond her open window. Owls, crickets, the dry wind. One could also hear the road from here, thankfully. Any unwelcome guest would make their appearance known before they even reached the house. 

“Lysa is still at the party. It was as dull an affair as I predicted. The company paled when compared to present.” Petyr stood before her bed, gazing down at her, watching her blue eyes catch the light. There was such a sense of intimacy here that he found himself holding his breath, despite the fact that he had been the one to initiate it. 

“I could leave.” Even as he spoke he was smiling, reaching out to run a finger along a cheek. _Leaving_  was simply not in the cards.  

 

**[Sansa]**

_She wasn’t home._ It was odd how relieving that simple statement was; the girl was always ill at ease when her aunt was sheltered under the same roof. At first, she’d hoped they might be close, or at least there might be some semblance of affection between them. What a foolish thought that had been; there was no love for the girl in her aunt’s heart.  

Sansa didn’t dare consider the consequences of the man leaving her lover in favour of her niece; she trusted he would have that detail handled. What she did consider: her aunt was still out, the household staff likely asleep, and Mr Baelish was in front of her. Petyr had left early for her. 

Still, it was risky, his presence in her room. Rumour-seeking ears or an arrival earlier than expected could ruin what had just started. Eyes widened at the thought, of the idea of being caught with such a man. She would be thrown out, sent to live on the streets. She would have nothing.  

But his stare; he made her feel important, he made her feel powerful. Did he know he gifted her such a feeling? She thought back to the night before, how she was able to make him break against her nearly on her own, and she knew she would only want more of it. 

The girl tilted her head toward his hand, appreciating his caress. She lifted herself onto her knees, the mattress providing enough cushioning to keep her comfortable. At eye level with the man now, the anxiety began to edge away, replaced with something much more enticing. He gave her the option, suggesting he might leave, and they both knew she would not turn him away.  

“You could stay. Would you like to stay?” Her lips parted, and she was not terribly close to him. _Not yet._  

 

**[Petyr]**

His gaze seemed to draw her up, her body elongating into a lovely line in order to reach him. His hand cupped a cheek, fingers moving down to tilt her chin up, to pull her ever closer to him. 

Closer and closer, keeping her on edge, not closing that distance, not yet. 

“I would be honored.” His voice was husky in the dark, the light tone that had graced him at the party long gone. This was a voice he reserved for her, a voice of wanton need. He didn’t have to construct a persona to woo her, did not have to follow the path he had taken with her aunt. He merely had to let his desires envelope him.  

Of course, it was best not to reveal himself too quickly. The memory of her fingers undoing his shirt was all too clear, the ruin she had not been able to glimpse almost burning in shame. 

His thumb grazed her lips. They were open, wet, an invitation that he readily accepted.

The distance between them closed swiftly, his mouth open to hers, drawing her out and responding in kind. One hand remained at her chin and the other went to her shoulder, the strap of her gown tangled about his fingers, an anchor that would soon give way.

He didn’t press her back, however. He made no assumptions to enter her bed. That invitation would have to come from her. The student would need to request the lesson.

 

**[Sansa]**

She did not know what to do with her arms when he touched her cheek, when his digits wrapped around the top of her nightgown. But she decided she must do something, and so the girl settled for resting them on his chest, neither pushing him away nor begging for more, content with simply kissing him. Sansa pressed into the firmness of his sternum, feeling the spaces between his ribs underneath her palm.  

His lips moved with hers, and the embrace seemed so much easier this time; she was learning how to wait for his mouth to turn slightly to meet hers, how to pace her own breathing so she did not gasp for air. She inched closer when he did, her knees at the edge of the bed.  

That contentment, those simple kisses, did not last long. Soon enough, the embrace grew more heated; her body radiating that same warmth from the night before. She could feel that warmth from him as well, under her stilled hands. Beneath her palm she could feel a steady heartbeat, slow where she was certain hers was racing.  

The worry of being found, the thoughts of her aunt or her family or her own misery, melted away; she simply wanted him, every part of him. Shrouded in the dark, she found it easier to give in to his hands, to her own wanting. Against his lips came the desperate murmur: “Will you touch me again?” _May I touch you again?_

To reinforce her words, one hand curled, thin fingers gathering a small bit of the fabric of his shirt. And she pulled back, barely, just enough so he could meet her gaze. Sansa gave a small, timid tug at his shirt, an attempt to coerce him to join her.

 

**[Petyr]**

His heart stilled at the feeling of her hands against his chest, fingers unknowingly curling over his ruin. Unlike last night in the grove he did not move, his body too lost in pleasure to pull away even a fraction, but still the worry crept into his mind. Would she look at him in disgust, if she saw? Would he be forced to explain in full?

He had her now, needy and aching for him, and he could not stand the idea that some past foolishness would ruin that. 

When Sansa spoke he was forced out of his thought, her bold question nervous on her lips. Her hand was pulling him ever so slightly, an invitation if he ever saw one, an unspoken acknowledgement of lust that he had every intention of meeting. 

Petyr didn’t say a word, letting the movement of his body speak for him. His hands shifted, one cupping a breast and the other touching her lower back, gently guiding her where he wanted her. He laid her lengthwise against the second-best silks, his senses full of her. 

The knowledge that they had little time fueled his movements. His lips bit and pulled and took, sucking at the pale flesh of her throat, the hard line of her jaw, her own red mouth. His hands lingered down to grasp the nightgown, pulling it up and away with a fluid movement and discarding it on the floor. She laid before him bare, her chest beating, and he pulled back just enough to observe.  
   
She was covered in marks and bruises, the one at her breast standing out the strongest, dark against the milky perfection of her skin. _His claim_.The blood went straight to his cock and he had to shift, angle himself in such a way that he got some friction, some relief, pressed against her. His fingers reached out to touch each gingerly, relieving the sensation of the grove, anticipating the creation of more. Soon she would not be able to be seen without the knowledge that she was his, and in his mind he could see the way she she wear those marks with head held high.

He spoke her name with reverence. 

His lips moved down, down, to lavish her unmarred breast. Teeth pulling, biting, sucking, lips caressing the hardened nipple as she squirmed beneath. But he had no intention of stopping there, not when he had the feast of her laid before him. His other hand slid between her legs, long fingers caressing the length of her sodden slit, dipping in and out of her, feeling her drip for him.

 

**[Sansa]**

She let herself be guided down until he covered her entirely with himself, with his mouth and his hands, with the scent she’d washed off only hours before. It was urgent in a way it had not been in the grove, open and hurried and much more quiet, mindful of any noise that might alert anyone to their activities. The manner in which he moved was not simply driven by lust; she knew they acted on borrowed time. Her aunt was still at the party, he’d said. How long would she remain without Petyr Baelish on her arm?  

The nightgown dropped onto the floor next to the mattress, leaving her vulnerable for a second time. It was different; he’d felt her bare skin before, left marks on her before, but it hadn’t happened on her bed, and she hadn’t been caught underneath him. In place of biting bark they were on a softer alternative, the cool air exchanged for the girl’s private quarters. 

She was exposed to him in more ways than one now. 

The bruises, the healing pinkish reminders, ached in the most satisfying way when he ran his fingers across them. He seemed strangely glad of them; she could see it in the way he surveyed his work, pride intermingling with that hunger they shared. 

His hardness could be felt again, a lewd press as he moved atop her. Should she move against him as well? Her first instinct was to rise her hips up to meet his, to help give him the motions he desired. And so she did, finding the act benefited her as well, especially in tandem with the man’s mouth, taking in her unmarked breast. 

The girl was still well aware of the need to be quiet; the moan that she gave was a muffled one, trapped behind a closed mouth, when he began to work on her nipple. And she could do little else but find the man’s temple with her hand, searching for some sort of stability, when his fingers filled her once again. Her legs spread to angle her hips toward his hand, chasing and chasing. 

Even almost entirely lost to his manoeuvres, she could see the man was still fully clothed. Instead of his skin, only the material of his clothes could be felt. She remembered the evening before, the slight falter on his face at her attempt to undress him, and her question was almost forgotten entirely. 

 _Almost._  “Petyr, I want-” And what did she want? In her room, in her bed, perhaps she could tell him. “I want to feel you.” 

 

**[Petyr]**

Her hips rose to meet his in a lurid display of need, her body meeting each press with its own, her movements as hurried and as quiet as they needed to be. Petyr hummed his approval against her skin as they began to find this rhythm, his fingers curling within her, pushing her on.

Already they were in tandem. Already she knew just how to move against him to draw a strangled moan from his throat. He choked it back this time, conscious of their precious state, though he knew she would soon hear it clearly, relish it. 

But when she spoke he had to admit he faltered just a bit, face turning upward to study hers. Her voice was soft, her question the sweetly innocent one of a young lover, but she spoke with such conviction. He never would have expected, when he first entered this house, that she would be so bold. Of course, there were many things about this that he had not planned for. 

Buried within her, curled about her, worshiping her, he knew he would be unable to simply cast her request aside. Refusing again would look queer, it would threaten to break some of her confidence. And there was another, more visceral feeling there. He longed to entangle himself in those limbs, as bare as her, and feel the press of her heat against his flesh. 

She could not be denied, that much was certain. However, he could perhaps ease the discovery with some distraction. 

Reluctantly he slid his fingers out of her and swiftly undid his trousers, pushing them away and discarding them to floor. His cock rose, brushing the tails of his shirt, the flesh red and slick with need; he let her admire it in the moonlight for a heartbeat. With a half-grin he then lay beside her, one hand bringing it to her slick entrance. He allowed it to brush there, parting the lips just a tad, soaking in her need, teasing her.

“Feel me like this?” he asked against her ear, as his other hand moved to unbutton his shirt.

 

**[Sansa]**

The man left her, prying himself away to rid himself of the lower half of his clothing. He was avoiding his shirt again then, and she could not deny it disappointed her. Even as he pressed against her, bringing himself to her entrance, she could feel that barrier between them. 

But his next move surprised her. The man lifted his hands to the fastened buttons, starting at the collar, parting the final piece of clothing inch by inch, and she turned to face him completely. 

The reason behind his pause in the grove was immediately clear. His opened shirt exposed his chest, the dark hairs scattered along his sternum, the faint outline of ribs beneath the skin. And there in the middle, long and jagged and cruel, a scar was displayed. Glossy and pink, it was unmissable even without the aid of proper light. The thing ran down his entire torso, varying in width, from lower abdomen all the way to the place just below his neck. 

A thousand questions filled her mind: how does a man so clever come to carry such a wound? Who gave it to him? What age was he when it happened? It looked old enough; she knew what fresh scars looked like from her brothers and their childish accidents. This was an injury deeply embedded into him, and she was sure it wasn’t just a wound he carried superficially; she would not forget the prior avoidance, the look on his face. 

Her eyes were widened then; she could not mask the shock, and she did nothing to prevent her mouth from hanging open. It was rude, the staring, but she could not turn away. A hand tentatively reached out into the small space between them, index reaching to touch the thinner line of skin. And that finger ran the length of it, down to his navel, nearly to the hardness below. 

There were questions, yes, but now was not the time for them. 

That same hand travelled back up then, trailing against his side, a movement she’d learned from him, until she reached his jaw. Her mouth leaned in, and her chest followed, pressing her breasts to his bare chest, to the scar that bisected him. 

It was so much better this way, she decided, his flesh set her own ablaze. “Feel you like this.” She agreed, and she could feel the warm, hard part of him between her thighs as she opened her mouth again.  

 

**[Petyr]**

It was impossible not to note the way she stared at him, even in the low light, alert as he was to her reactions. The shock was palpable, and though not unexpected he was left with the overwhelming sensation that he was right to keep such a thing hidden. Weakness, pity, shame–it all mixed within him until he found himself setting his teeth, averting his eyes from her, pulling away just ever so slightly. 

She, however, would not allow it. Her fingers were light on him as she traced the length of his body, as she touched the old wound. It was as if she feared she would hurt him once more. The shock disappeared swiftly and in it’s place was needy, pleased Sansa, coiling into him, lifting her hips just so. 

The soft weight of her breasts felt impossibly good as she tangled herself about him, as she echoed his phrase. His cock pulsed against her, pushing aside any further lingering sorrow. There would be time for explanations after, after, after. 

He wasn’t truly entering her, not until she gave him to word. Perhaps he would not enter her at all this time, but he was staking a claim. The thick head of him dipped into her just a fraction, his hips grinding against her. He rubbed himself against the hard nub between her legs, pulled back to tease her opening, his lips locked at her breast. Their combined wetness only added to the delicious friction and he breathed words of encouragement against her skin, nails making lines across her flesh. 

 _No one had ever done this_ , he thought, in awe as her body rose to him, as she opened for him. _No one knew how wicked she was._

 

**[Sansa]**

Her pelvis moved with his, and she did not quite know what she was seeking. Was it more of his teasing undulations? Or was she prepared for something altogether different? The head of him shifted to the place his fingers had filled minutes ago, and the girl let out a gasp as he barely pressed into her. One hand anchoring on his temple, the other grasped his shoulder, and she still felt unsteady, dizzy from their dance. Eyes closed for a few longs seconds, an attempt to regain her bearings. 

Her forehead was damp, breathing shallow as she tried to control her responses, limiting anything too loud behind a mouth that struggled to stay closed.  _This isn’t right_ ; a mantra now in her mind as she arched willingly against his chest, his hips, relishing every encouraging word spoken against her pale skin. The sheets twisted underneath them, pillows scattered around the top of the bed’s frame. Each new press by the man served to pull her further into the mattress, and further into him. 

 _It isn’t right_ , but did it matter? Caged underneath him, guided by his rough voice and his deft hands, she felt a freedom, a relevance, an excitement. It was new and it was lewd and terrible, but it was _hers_. The way he looked at her, the care he took paired with the marks he left behind; she had him in a way no one else did. 

_No one else._

The hand at her temple bid him to rise from her breast, and up to her again. Guiding him up, there was no space between them; chest against chest, her nose just touching the tip of his, her legs spreading just a bit wider around him, still seeking that friction where she pulsed. Her eyes were half closed, letting out an uneven sigh between their mouths. She was gone and gone and gone.

“Petyr. _Petyr_.” The only sounds to be heard; the sound of a tall tree scraping the side of her window, and their heavy breathing.  

 

**[Petyr]**

He was fucking her without fucking her, his body a lurid move against hers, his cock all but entering her. Sansa arched beneath him, reaching for more and more, and it was growing increasingly difficult to hold himself back, to allow this to be just a taste. 

She was gripping at him, bringing his face to hers, saying his name in that sweet, begging voice of hers that seemed barely more than a breath. He no longer thought about the press of his scar against her young flesh, no longer thought of much else than the feel of her, stretched out beneath him, willing.

She was opening for him in more ways than one. Innocence still clung about her but the crippling shyness he perceived earlier seemed to be melting away. She was chasing what she wanted, grasping out for it with a straining, desperate body, a needful creature. 

Petyr reached between them to coax her further along with his fingers, pressing against her where his cock was not, ensuring that not a part of her core was untouched. He moaned her name against her lips, his own orgasm held at bay, waiting for her. 

She was lovely always, but the beauty that he saw now was unparalleled. Her limbs loose against the cool silk of the sheets, her skin flushed, her whole being seemed alive. She clung to him with some need to share this, pleading for more, all of her _his._

 

**[Sansa]**

He slid against her, moving in the way she assumed a man might whilst seated inside a woman. Would it feel this good when he entered her, took her in the most intimate of ways? Not that their current actions were not deemed intimate; she clung to him, arms wrapping around him to keep him close, the firm tips of her nipples pressed to his chest, brushing the scattered hair there. Her legs were open, knees slightly bent in order to angle her hips higher toward him. It was an intimate desperation that forced her hand now. 

And she broke, his fingers persuading her to finally reach that crashing bliss. Try as she might she could not quiet that higher pitched keen that signaled her end. It was too loud, too much; one hand reaching to her mouth to stifle herself. Still, the sensation was nearly blinding; the feel of the hardness sliding between her legs, his flesh against hers, and the night before paled in comparison to this.   
He’d promised better, he’d promised more. So far, he was true to his word. 

Still unsated, the man pressed on, grinding against her. She continued her own motions, eager to watch the man break in the same way she had. He tensed atop her, finding his own completion, and she could feel that warm wetness coat her inner thighs, the sheets underneath. She wondered what it might feel like if he finished inside of her, to feel that warmth fill her in a new sort of claim. It was a disgraceful thought, an improper thought, and one that caused her face to redden. 

No more than a handful of seconds passed before she heard it; a rumbling sound finding its way in through the window. At first she thought she might have imagined it, but rather than fade away the sound grew louder, closer. Perhaps she merely wanted to pretend she didn’t know what it meant.

 _A car._ Her aunt returned. 

Her breath stopped, panicked eyes flitting to his face, his own greenish stare. “She’s back.” That lingering sated feeling was gone; terror seeped into the corners of her mind as she heard the car door open and close. 

 

**[Petyr]**

Holding her this close as she broke under him Petyr was aware of the profound change that overtook her. It did not match any of his previous experiences with women, for Sansa seemed to feel it deeper, her whole body lost to the sensation. It was separate, even, from their encounter before in the grove. It was as if, having experienced the sensation once before, she was finally able to give herself into it completely.

Petyr felt himself torn between watching the exhalation overtake her frame and giving into his own, between observing and riding the wave of pleasure without thought. He pulled back just enough to watch her stifle her cries with her own hand, the image of her silenced in such a way sending a surge to his groin. He couldn’t hold himself back for long, the sight of her, the heat of her, the pulsating nature of her taking him by the throat.

He spilled himself with a sore, stifled groan, coating her inner legs, her wet slit, the sheets underneath. It was obscene, more so than if he had merely come inside her, and the vulgar nature of it only spurred on his pleasure.

He did not totally lose himself, though. He heard the return before she said anything. Annoyance and despair filed him quickly before he took on the role of guide.

He pulled away from her reluctantly, gently. He had wished to savor this time with her, feel himself dry on her skin, though of course he knew such a thing was not possible, not tonight at least. In a flash he had pulled on his trousers and had his shoes in hand–not quite the image of innocence, but well-done enough to flee back to his room.

He looked down at her, ruined and delicious in the low light. He couldn’t help himself; he stole a kiss from her lips before slipping out the door, as silent as he came.

He was latching his own door behind him when he heard Lysa on the stairs. Holding his breath he listened as she made her way to his threshold, her step unsteady with wine and shame. She paused there, and he could feel how tense she was even through the wood. Surely she had known by now that he left upset, and clearly she saw the closed door as a barrier she could not cross that night. After pausing for several moments she returned to her own rooms.

It was only then that he breathed, a long exhale that he felt had been trapped for hours. He stripped himself and slid into his own bed, the feel, the smell of her still lingering on his skin.

He wrapped himself in silks, in pleasure, and drifted off to sleep.

 

**[Sansa]**

He slipped out, one last kiss before he went. Sansa listened, waiting for her aunt’s accusing yell or for a door to slam, waiting for something to indicate he’d been caught. But minutes passed, and there was only silence. Their secret remained one, then, and the girl’s body relaxed.  

She pulled the wrinkled sheet around her, chilled from the drying sweat, from the cooling seed between her legs. She could smell him on the cloth, she could smell him on her, as her eyes closed, too tired to worry about her soiled body or her guilty mind. 


	4. Chapter 4

**[Sansa]**

The mood of the house shifted, led by her aunt’s increasingly cheerful behaviour. It was strange indeed, to see a woman typically so capricious, to be consistently near enough to happy.  

Days before, it had started with an uncomfortable breakfast. Sansa had cleaned herself the best she could in early morning haste, but she was certain his scent, his seed, lingered.

But Lysa would not have noticed, not with the unfocused eyes and pained expression that came after a night of heavy drinking. As the girl stood, meal finished, her aunt looked to Mr Baelish, and her eyes seemed nearly apologetic.  

How odd, that she was the one to appear sorry, when only hours before her paramour had fled her niece’s room, fingers coated with her.  

The next day there was a change; her aunt’s eyes were bright and young, her step was nearly a glide, flying about the house, discussing “preparations” with the maids. Sansa did not dare ask what they were all preparing for; she did not want to spoil her aunt’s good spirits. And so she kept to the grounds, favouring the outdoors for days on end until Lysa went away one day, to the city.  

She was in the parlour, working intently on her stitching, when the delivery came. The dress rested on a long-backed chair, long and pristine and white. Sansa ran her fingers across the detailed embroidery, the modest cut better suited for a woman of age, and her chest tightened.  

And was she surprised? Of course not, only a foolish girl would not have known what would happen.  

Still, her feet carried her to the study, to the man she did not want to admit she’d missed the last few days. She shut the door behind her and turned on the spot. The words soft on her lips. “You’re going to marry her.” It wasn’t a question, and the girl watched him from afar, not trusting herself to inch any closer.  

 

**[Petyr]**

It wasn’t exactly that this was an unplanned outcome, but the sequence of events had forced his hand. Lysa was apologetic but lost, a girl-woman who simply did not know what to do with her betrayal. In order to keep her moving forward he needed to keep her happy, and in order to keep her happy he had to play his trump card.

It simply wasn’t feasible for him to leave now, not when there was so much left to sup on. Not when Sansa was so unprepared. 

He thought he could still smell himself on her the morning after; he wasn’t certain if this was merely a trick of his imagination of not. Real or false it stirred something in him, caused him to sit upright in his chair, Lysa’s words a fading drone in his ears. Did Sansa know what it was she did to him? He thought not, for still the shyness, the uncertainly clung about her. Surely she was not so skilled that she could already mask such teases in this way, in a way he could not begin to unravel?

He didn’t let it be seen. He ate and then he kept his distance, wrapped in Lysa’s demands, letting her come to him. 

He had to admit some dissatisfaction with the fact that, on the day they were left alone, it was nearly noon before she arrived in the study. She stood before him, dressing in pale blue silk, demure. The space between them was like a gulf. 

Petyr felt an ache. Having held her so close just days ago his body wanted nothing more absorb hers yet again, but she was clearly on guard. He pushed some legal documents away and watched her, his face a sad smile. 

“Did you expect anything different?” Without asking he upturned two glasses in front of him and poured a bit of imported brandy in each. He held one up to her, a peace offering. 

“Sometimes, in this line, we do things we do not want to do. Sometimes the reward is greater than any temporary discomfort.” The use of _we_  was quite deliberate on his part. 

 

**[Sansa]**

She had often wondered why he spent so much time in the study. What work did he do, when he wasn’t busy following his mark, chasing a fortune that he had no claim to? To his credit, he’d found the only room that was truly quiet, and one that the house staff never lingered in. The soft chairs, the shelves lined with books older than the house, as she surveyed her surroundings she could see the appeal.  

His questions echoed her own thoughts, and paired with his piercing stare she wondered if he really might be able to see inside her mind. “I thought-” but she stopped her stammer, unable to find the right words, ones that didn’t make her sound childish or jealous. 

And what right did she have to be jealous? His attentions, his promises, they didn’t matter in this instance, under this house. Sansa Stark was the offender, the other woman, the guilty party. Between the pangs of a girl’s quiet irritation, and for the very first time, she found herself feeling sorry for her aunt. She had no idea what sort of man she was marrying. She imagined Lysa’s _discomfort_ might be more permanent than her own.  

When he poured a set of drinks she almost declined, begging to be excused so she could think on her own. But she was finding it more and more difficult to be apart; days on end of remembering his mouth, his touch, and her resolve was faltering, even in light of the awful news.  

She closed the distance slowly, taking the offered glass, careful not to let her fingers touch his; she’d learned how easily he could pull her to him. A small sip, and she could feel the caustic burn down her oesophagus, drawing a small cough from her.  

Setting that glass back in the place it was plucked from, she watched him take his own drink, more fluidly than her own attempt. Another step toward him, testing, as she prodded him further. “When is the ceremony?” Soon, judging by the hasty preparations. She could guess that the date was her aunt’s suggestion and not his. The girl wondered if she warranted an invitation at all, or if Lysa Arryn would shuffle her to her room, locking her away from the festivities. 

Her empty fingers twitched, and that pull began to overwhelm.

 

**[Petyr]**

He could not fail to note the way she avoided his touch, even as she took the offered drink. A thought, horrid in its plausibility, entered his mind: did she regret everything that passed? Petyr should have known better than to grow too attached. He could picture himself then, in the days after the ceremony, leaving the estate with nothing but a fortune. 

He downed his down drink in one gulp. It burned all the way down, a delicious pain. 

Trying not to let any emotion show on his face he focused instead on the slight twitch of her fingers. A nervous tick, perhaps. It felt unspeakably good to have that sight to ground him. 

“A week.” His grey gaze fell on the bottle. He wanted another drink, though the idea of doing so seemed sloppy right now, and judging by the way she had coughed he figured that she was set with her small amount.

“I would have told you,” an explanation that was perhaps unneeded. Still, he marched on, eager to have her in his reach once more. “It changes nothing.”

His eyes met hers then, searching, imploring her to understand. It was merely a move in the game, nothing more. Lysa was a piece to be played, to be bled, and nothing that had passed in the grove, in Sansa’s bed had anything to do with her. Soon enough Lysa would be as used as she could be and they would reap the benefits. This was to be expected, and Sansa needed to learn it if she was to be the exceptional pupil he knew she could be. 

Did she truly not realize that?

 

**[Sansa]**

The dress she wore, blue and modest, covered all signs of his claim. Days had passed, and the marks had coloured, from pink to startling purple and now to faded grey. If she ran her hand across her side, or along one of her thighs, she could still feel a twinge of pain, but that spark was slowing waning. Soon, the colours would meld back into her pale skin, and there would be no evidence of their sordid actions.

The man spoke, and she tensed. “A week?” The girl struggled to hide her shock. She watched his eyes move to the alcohol, and her own hand reached for her abandoned glass. Mimicking him, and more prepared for the rough taste of it a second time, she swallowed the rest of the liquid, clearing her throat with closed eyes just after the gulp. Slowly, blue pried open to look at him, enjoying the settling warmth from the drink. “It’s just…so soon.”

There was a truth underneath the innocent exterior of the girl; a knowledge of the world that only came from the cruelness it sometimes bestowed. Despite his promise, and the way he seemed to want every piece of her, she didn’t wholly believe he would take her with him. She’d been disappointed far too many time before to believe such a tale. “I thought we’d have more time.”

A week, they had a week. 

She surprised herself then, when her hand found the bottle, refilling both glasses with a generous helping, more than the man had dared pour. One swift motion and she’d finished her drink a second time, setting the empty container aside. She picked up his glass, offering it back to him, the liquid swishing slightly as her fingers curled around it. There was a hint of a smile on her face, even if she didn’t want it there. He would notice. He always noticed.

A step close to him, and her leg brushed his knee.

 

**[Petyr]**

His own eye movement to the liquor seemed to incite her, and despite her harsh reaction to the fist sip she went to refill her own glass, as well as his. Her hand was clearly unused to alcohol and she poured a bit too much, surprising him when she downed it without hesitation. The news, it seemed, had been rather upsetting, and he could not entirely fault her her reaction. 

In most situations Petyr would know better than to accept the offered drink. He only lost himself in the most controlled circumstances, when he needed the drink to smooth his path, but they were alone. The house was near silent around them,and not even the rustle of the wind could be heard outside. And Sansa’s eyes were wide, her face expectant. She was here. 

He found himself taking the glass. He didn’t avoid her as she did him, fingers grazing hers. The tumbler was slick between her fingers; the weight felt good in his hand. 

He downed the drink again in one gulp, letting the glass dangle from long fingers before he set it on the desk with a knock. 

“We have all the time.” Did she really think things would change? That a legal agreement would keep him from her pull, that he would discard her so quickly? He felt a sense of sorrow at that realization. 

She was, however, closing the distance between them, brushing against him, a cautious flirt. Petyr took the bait and pressed her on, reaching up to grip her waist, holding her in place. He wondered if, on her hidden flesh, the pattern of his hand was still visible. 

“There’s business and there’s pleasure.” _An important lesson._ “You must divorce yourself from the idea that this means anything more than success. Success I fully intend to share.” He was confident that once she got a taste she would hunger for more.  

That was his story, after all. 

 

**[Sansa]**

_All the time._ His words were horribly tempting, and she wanted to believe them. He seemed so truthful, so wanting; Sansa sometimes thought they were just the same. But they weren’t; he was a liar by trade, and he was good at that trade; he would have been caught long ago if he wasn’t. She might do well to remember that.

But keeping such trivial things as truth grew harder to keep in her mind when he reached out, gripping her by the waist. Her hip angled toward his touch, no longer as reserved as she’d planned to be. Lysa was gone for the day, the maids busy with their daily tasks and wedding duties. There was no one home to bother them.

And no one came to the study, anyway.

“I understand.” And she did. His words made sense, and the hope of shared success was so sweet to her ears. The hope of escaping her cage, of having her freedom.

“Lysa is business and nothing more.” She spoke as a pupil, parroting his sentiment back to him. And perhaps the effects of the alcohol were finally setting it, drawing her out; one hand reached to cover his own at her side. And she leaned forward and down, to where the man was sitting, her free hand clasping his shoulder as she bent. Her auburn hair fell around her face, masking her vision on either side; she could see nothing else save Petyr Baelish.

Her voice was low, and she was learning to be coy. “And if Lysa is business, what does that make me?”

 

**[Petyr]**

She agreed; she coiled about him and pulled herself close, the auburn wave of her hair masking their faces. Petyr felt his own lips being pulled upward, a sly smile to match her coy ways. 

The Sansa of a fortnight ago would not be so bold. She would certainly never speak of business, of shared plans. He wondered, he hoped, that she believed him.

Of course he would never share the entirety of his being with her. Such an act would be foolish, and he learned long ago to correctly guard himself against such things. He did, however, intend to teach her, to bring her as close as he could. Closer than anyone else, he dare say. 

Was that not enough?

“Oh, I think you know quite well, sweetling.” His voice was arch as he playfully refused to answer the question  
.    
His fingers tightened on her waist. She was unsteady on her feet, leaning in as she was, and it took only the slightest tug to pull her to his lap.

 

**[Sansa]**

“Do I?” The girl could be playful, if that was his aim. And surely it was her own goal; she wanted to forget his impending nuptials, the white dress, the awful aunt. Still shrouded by her hair and fueled by the alcohol, she continued after his light response. “I might need reminding.” It was new, this banter, this teasing. She could feel the warmth of drink and her own nervousness setting her face ablaze. _Am I doing well?_

She must have been, she reasoned, as she was pulled onto him. Sansa went willingly, her legs falling atop his, one hand still on his shoulder. Her breath hitched, and would she ever get used to the way he made her feel? She presumed not, she _hoped_ not. His hand at her side seemed to belong there now. Her body fit along his as if she’d been guided to him a thousand times before.  

She watched him, and could not help her youthful honesty. “You have a nice smile.” _When it reaches your eyes_ , she did not say. She never saw the real one when at the dinner table or in the presence of others. This one seemed to be saved for her, for when no one else was around. She removed her hand from their paired hold on her waist, bringing it to his mouth, tracing that curve with her index finger.  

She leaned in, and her lips nearly met her own exploring finger between them. “Will you kiss me, Petyr?” Asking, always asking, always wanting him.

 

**[Petyr]**

There was something magnificent about holding her this close, listening to light flirtations fall from her lips, knowing that it was him that she wanted in this way. Her shyness only magnified her loveliness, mixing with the brandy to create a fine blush across her skin. He breathed in, took her all in, grazed her with his fingers with a kind of reverence. Her skin was as fine as her silk, so smooth he simply could not stop himself from relishing the feel. 

He had expected a good mark, he had expected a fortune. He had not expected this girl, aching and pulling and consuming, begging for it all to be done to her in turn. 

She talked of his smile and Petyr felt himself giving her what it was she wanted, his lips pulling into some genuine. He was not a man to take much stock in compliments, but when it came from her he could not resist that simple pleasure. 

Then she asked for him to kiss her, and when had he ever denied her that?

His free hand moved to her lower back, fingers splayed and pressing, pulling her towards him. Their lips met, mouths opened, their bodies in sync. They were locked away, cloistered here among the books, and no one would know of his weakness, manifested in this girl across his knees. As long as he kept his head above water and did not lose himself to her completely, did not lose sight of the plan, he would succeed. 

And what was success when it came without true pleasure? He had used his body for long he had almost forgotten what it was to exalt in the presence of a lover. 

His fingers curled in her silk, pressing her on. He could taste brandy, he could taste sin.

 

**[Sansa]**

And what of her own weakness? She’d been so hurt, so angry when she first entered the quiet study. In her foolish fantasy she’d had a mind to raise her voice at the deceptive man, to show her claws, to leave him there without any of the contact they both craved. She might have thought to show him just how much he was able to make her feel.  

But that hurt had fallen away at the offered drink, at the lesson, and she forgot her anger entirely. Petyr Baelish drew it all away with his hungry mouth, with his long fingers finding her spine. The proximity she’d been so reluctant to grant him was now a ballast; she ebbed and leaned against him, allowing his tongue to dip into her mouth and sliding her own against his in return.  

She was slowly learning how to meet him properly in their embrace. Shifting the pressure from a firm, wet connection to teasing nips on his lower lip, slanting her head in tandem with his. Every press, every advance was granted with a tentative pause, waiting to see if her movements would earn an approving hum.  

She fell further into him at his encouragement, leaving no space between his chest and her own. And should she tell him she missed his bare sternum, the mysterious scar that split him in two? Or that she thought of him each night since his hasty exit, fending off the urge to sink her own fingers into herself in order to find some sort of release? _No_. No, she would keep those shameful sentiments unspoken, even as her body began to shift atop him, the fabric of her knees hitching upward, betraying those heated thoughts.  

But maybe the anger was still there, melded into another, more satisfying emotion. When her hand reached his temple it _dug_ rather than rested, and the grip on his shoulder grew harsher as their kisses deepened. Her mouth widened, almost painfully, and the girl moaned.

 

**[Petyr]**

In his lap the shyness fell quickly, replaced by the same wanton desire that he had seen in the grove, in her bed. In truth it was even clearer to him than it was then, the light of the summer sun making no secret of the way she responded to him, of the flush of her skin and the fluttering of her eyes. 

Not that he needed sight, truly. She moaned and writhed in his lap, seeking more and more, her hands pressing into his with the same force he gave to her. He wondered, briefly, what he would say to Lysa were she to bruise him. 

But there was no time now to linger on such things. Her skirt was rising with the action and he found his hand drawn there, fingers digging into her thigh, drawing a hiss from her lips.

“Needy little one, are we?” His mouth was wicked, his lips half-drawn into a smile. The brandy-fueled bandy of before had risen something in him, something that he now chased. He needed to see what his words would do, needed to hear what she gave back.  

Petyr’s own response to her body was clear enough, pressing against her through the linen of his suit. He leaned forward, pressed upward so that she could feel all of him, and dragged his teeth across her neck. 

 

**[Sansa]**

No one had spoken to her in such a way. As needy as she was, the mischievous words, his teasing smile, only served to incite her further. And it struck her then that there was no shroud of night, no lack of sun to hide their actions. If he removed her dress, if he guided her to her peak, he would see her, truly; the light would give away every inch of her. She would not be able to hide in shadows.  

But she could also see him; greedy eyes leaden with his own desire. So close to him, the greying temples and lines at his eyes were almost endearing. The more they moved together, the more she was willing to yield herself in order to see, to feel more of him.  

She was all around the man now, trapping him between her legs on the chair. Was it the alcohol that gave her the boldness, or his words? “ _Harder._ ” It was almost a whine, something decidedly needy, something for him alone. Did she mean his teeth at her neck or his fingers digging into her thigh? No matter; the girl simply wanted more. She tilted her head, giving him space to continue below her jaw.  

The man pressed up, demonstrating his own need, and she met him there, angling her hips so that his hardness came against her nub. And she was wet, her undergarments an unfortunate sacrifice in the quest to keep herself close to him.  

She was worried about ruining his clean slacks while she undulated atop him. And so the clever, thoughtful girl that she was, she thought to remove them. The hand at his shoulder reached down and down and down, skimming the fabric of his shirt and lower, until the back of her hand brushed the bulge between them. Her hand dipped into his trousers, eyes meeting his in a challenge.

 

**[Petyr]**

The girl whined on top of him, she struggled and twisted for more, and the plea that fell from her brandy-soaked mouth pushed him further and further on. He gripped him, bit into her flesh with no regard for any modesty. If she wanted it harder he would give it to her, gladly. He would devour her. 

She was wet in his lap, soaking the fine slacks, leaving him with his own mark. He felt a lurid pleasure at the thought, but still he did not protest when she went to remove them. 

Petyr leaned back in his chair, clearly as her mercy, watching her eyes as her slim hands slid down. His flesh felt as heated as hers, the little breeze that came from the garden doing nothing to cool it. The door was unlocked, he knew–any passing maid could see them like this, the tolerated lover and the niece, she positioned like a whore in his lap. The idea made him growl, made him dig his fingers into her thigh, the cautious part of his mind more than overwhelmed. 

“Do you want this?” he asked with a raised brow as her fingers found his cock. His hand skimmed her side, underneath her dress, pushing up and up, clearly wishing it was off. “I think a good pupil would ask.” 

 

**[Sansa]**

Oh, and what a cruel man he was, to make her ask for her pleasure. _Oh_ , and how it made her ache. She groaned at the words, and it was a keen without concern to who might hear; she no longer cared. She couldn’t care; not when her dress was lifting, his hands wandering, granting her the burning caress that she craved. It was a youthful urgency, the passion of someone so new to the pleasures of the flesh, that guided her actions.

Lucky for Sansa, she had someone experienced to show her.

She leaned forward, nodding against his cheek, unblemished skin skimming his. There was no use denying what was so evident. “I want it.” His slacks slid down slightly, aided by his leaning body, allowing her to see him entirely. The girl bought her fingers to caress the velvety skin, beginning a slow stroke, remembering his guidance from the grove. “I want you.” Did it please him to hear it? His darkening eyes seemed to indicate it did indeed.  

 _Who was this girl?_ She had to wonder; she did not know who she was anymore. Lewd and grinding against her aunt’s lover, in broad daylight with servants scurrying about, she was a stranger to herself. Her knees were growing sore, body tightly wound and coiling further with each word that came from his mouth. 

Atop her, caging him, and she was utterly under his control.

“Please?” A question, a desperate and roughly spoken one, driven by primal urges and perhaps that internally held need to please. _See_ , her voice seemed to tell him, _I can be obedient. I can ask._

 

**[Petyr]**

He hoped he was able to subdue what having her beg in such a voice did to him. He did not wish to scare her off with the primal desire that rushed through him at the sound of her pleas, that made him want to press her against the desk and ride her hard, that made him want to see her blood coat his cock. 

Instead he gave her an approving smile and a slight nod of his head, fixating on removing her dress and she took his cock in hand. She held him with more skill this time, the newly-found boldness that seemed to be overtaking her clearly granting her a more steady foothold in this world. 

“Since you asked nicely.” The sash on her dress came undone and he pushed it, and her slip, over her head with one fluid movement, her hand leaving him only briefly. She sat before him, half-nude in the afternoon light, no shadow for modestly, no shadow to hide the marks that covered her. _His._   

His fingers went to curl at her thigh, knuckles dragging across the skin, watching it prick in turn. Her silken underwear was soaked through to the point where it was almost as obscene as nudity. His fingers stopped there, curled underneath just a bit, just enough to coat the tips. Petyr looked up at her then, grey-green gaze half-hidden, mouth set. “And what would you have me do?”

 

**[Sansa]**

The blue dress, the last barrier between the man’s daylight gaze and her bare form was swiftly removed, forgotten to the floor. Exposed, she felt a strange conflict; her first instinct was to cover herself, to bring her arms up to protect her body from the man below her. The second one, the more terrible and more powerful one, was to let him see. She wanted to let him observe each mark, each curve, to bask in his appreciation, to ask for more.

She pressed against him, her breasts to his shirt, and she wished the clothing was gone from him as well. Her free arm wrapped around his neck while the other continued a slow pace at his hardness. His hand joined hers between them, grazing her damp underwear, teasing her with his words.

His fingers were so close, and her pelvis moved to meet him, chasing the contact he failed to provide. “Touch me, Petyr.” Her mouth, tender from their long embrace, opened as she brought it down to his. The kiss itself was a beg in its own way, an attempt to incite him, to discover a need akin to her own. She wanted to see him break the way he did in the grove, on her bed; those few, fleeting seconds of vulnerability.

Sansa stopped her hand, then, ceasing the rhythm, waiting for him to act. Instead of keeping ahold of him, she left him to clasp his clothed side, removing the feel of her skin against his. The lingering scent of liquor hung between them when she pulled her mouth from his, her breathing shallow, blue eyes feverish. “I need you to touch me.”

 

**[Petyr]**

Her words burned through him, stronger than any brandy, a rush of blood going straight to his groin. When her hand left him he wondered, foolishly, if the heat of the blood was too much. 

But no, it was a tease of her own. Petyr briefly thought to punish her for such a thing, to draw her out with slight touches until she was aching for release, but he thought better of it. Already she had pushed herself past her boundaries–it was best not to go too far, not this early. 

She was, after all, being such a good pupil. If one were looking for it one would see pride on the edges of his smile. 

At her words his fingers curled forward, grazing under the sodden silk, dipping into her slit. She was dripping for him; the feel of her coating his fingers caused a hum of approval to form in his throat.

One long finger rubbed itself against her clit. “Touch you like this, then?”

 

**[Sansa]**

She buried her face in his neck, the girl’s tense body leaning over him. Auburn cascaded between them, falling around her face and his, shrouding them once again in a forest of red. And at his neck she kissed him, dry presses along the slope just beneath his jaw. His scent was something new, something that drew her out to taste him, her tongue darting to his flesh for just a moment in curiosity. Her lips skimmed him, feeling the stubble forming under his chin and the warmth radiating from his chest.  

And his finger was a torture, that single digit serving to delicately tease. “ _Mm hm…._ ” A reply mumbled into his flesh as her hips started a slow chase, seeking a quickened tempo from the man leading the game. 

She drew her up enough to speak in his ear, “And what do you want?” The question was a sigh, pulled out of her from the toying hold her had on her. Did he want her just as much? _Am I doing well?_ The man didn’t seem disappointed, his own breathing not quite as in check as it had been before, his eyes dark with lust.  

Her own wandering hand slipped under his buttoned shirt, reaching his side, seeking that bare skin once more. Her fingernails sunk in, and she gave a gentle tug, attempting to draw him further to her again. She spread her sore legs until her knees came against either side of the chair, until her thighs rested completely on his.  

_What do you want?_

 

**[Petyr]**

_And what do you want?_ The question came on a breath, the girl arching under his fingers, seeking out the same pleasure that he had given her before. Her fingers skimmed his side and he did not flinch, not even when they threatened to make contact with his scar. No, he still held the upper hand here, her barely clothed and moaning frame evidence of that.

Not that he wasn’t affected; the room felt too warm, his cock thick in her hand. And he wanted so, so much more. He wanted to have her, to ruin and remake her. 

Not until she asked, though. Not until she _begged._

Until then, he would content himself with another taste. 

With firm hands he pushed her from him, lifted her to the desk they sat behind. She sat there for a moment, confusion in her eyes, nipples hard in the afternoon light, mouth open and ready, a wanton creature if he ever saw one.

Petyr’s fingers dug into her side, leaving red marks on ivory, and then threaded themselves between her skin and her undergarments. The silk was simply an afterthought at this point and he treated it as such, pulling it from her and throwing it to the ground, not caring if he was torn in the rash act. 

She was as bare before him as she had ever been but clearly visible now, no darkness to provide her with modesty. And she was lovelier than he could have ever imagined, her marred skin and excited movements something he would cherish. 

Without a word he sunk to the floor before her, teeth nipping at her inner leg, his nostrils full of her.

 

**[Sansa]**

At her question, something changed.  

Her first, startling thought was that she’d said the wrong thing, as the man pushed her away and away. Eyes widened in shock and in fear, a childish terror of losing some prize, some reward, only recently gifted.  

But it was not to the door he guided her, but to the desk. From her newly appointed perch they were at eye level, and she could see no disappointment, and no disdain there; it was more of a comfort than she cared to admit.  She watched him, her contrast; apart from the loose hanging slacks he was clothed where she was bare and open, calm and watchful where she was in a frenzy. The girl’s breath was heavy with anticipation and more than a little confusion.  

He pulled away that last piece of fabric, her final article of modesty removed carelessly, and the girl thought he might take her. 

But he dropped to the ground, keeping her in place as her neck tilted down so she could see. The hold at her waist was a delicious sort of pain as the man’s mouth found her thigh, so close to where his finger had been. “Petyr, what are you-” but his lips crept closer, his grip grew tighter, and she finished her question with a gasp, mouth going slack.  

Her legs spread, modesty forgotten, while her hand clenched the wooden desk’s edge. Her other arm moved to his head, fingers grazing the short hair there, unsure of what he would do next.  

Surely he wouldn’t kiss her there. She’d never heard of such a thing; it seemed so wrong. The girl had been told, her mother had explained to her what it meant to make love, and this was not a part of it. Even as her hips writhed between his hands, even as she nearly moaned his name, she spoke. “You’re not going to… _you can’t…oh_ ," but how tricky words had become, how difficult they always were when in the presence of Petyr Baelish. 

 

**[Petyr]**

_Oh_ , was the girl’s reply, and _oh_ seemed to permeate her whole being. Clearly no one had told her of such a thing, and why should they? It was not an act designed for women such as her, women who were never told they could be expected to experience pleasure. 

Petyr smiled against her inner thigh, the unusual satisfaction of being first overtaking him. It would be a joy he would experience time and time again, as he guided her with gentle and persistent hands into his world. 

And any doubts Sansa seemed to have melted quickly, as she gripped his hair and spread her legs like a harlot. Her mouth was still questioning but there was a twinge of excitement there, a breathy need that practically begged him to go forward. 

He tasted her then, dragging his tongue along her slit, drinking her in. Quickly he felt heady, the sensation of her so much more powerful than the drink. His mind in a fog in wanted nothing more than to savor her. 

“Do you wish for me to stop?” he spoke against her lower lips, before moving to lick her again and again, a man devouring a sweet treat. One hand kept her grounded on the desk, open and ready for his mouth. The other dropped behind to take himself in hand, slow strokes giving him just enough relief to keep going. 

 

**[Sansa]**

She was thankful for his grip on her when his tongue darted out, finding the place between her legs. The sensation was so new, so unfamiliar that the firm hands keeping her still were more than necessary. Her back arched, bending while her pelvis remained on the desk, and the girl let out a low moan, knuckles white on the wood.  

And did she want him to stop? Perhaps if he would have asked before his mouth reached where she throbbed, or if she had more resolve, she might have been able to tell him no, or at the very least tease him in the same way he played with her. But the poor girl was delirious on the pleasure he was providing, despite how lewd or wrong or unknown it was to her. The man seemed practiced, experienced in the trade; the act must not be so unusual, then.  

She stared down at him in a fevered daze. He spoke against the dampness between her thighs, enjoying himself as his breath at her nub stirred her further, the ripples of the new sort of gratification reaching her toes. It was odd to her that such a thing might make him happy; surely he didn’t gain anything from it? But as she watched one of his hands leave her and wrap around himself in a steady stroke she thought she might be mistaken.  

The right word then was easy to say, as her eyes closed and she let herself be licked and tasted, the hand on his temple an urgent press. The word was a chant, starting as a whisper, barely heard. As the man’s pace quickened along with her own heartbeat, as her bare chest began to heave and a leg wrapped around his shoulder to steady herself, her voice grew louder. His name fell from her lips, over and over. It was a plea, it was a consent, it was for him alone. 

The man was dangerous, and he was surely cruel, and a liar, and she wanted all of it; she wanted all of him.

 

**[Petyr]**

Oh, what a sight they must have made, were someone to discover them. From her perch on the desk she pushed herself to his mouth, seeking more, winding herself about him to hold him tight. His name was a constant refrain on the air, a beautiful sounds that he knew would follow him all day.

Petyr knew these reactions were genuine, he could feel it in the press of her against him, in the grip she had on his hair. And yet he could not help himself from stepping back and observing her, noting the way she moaned, the way she moved her body to seek out more, the way the expression of her pleasure overtook him, and thinking of what an excellent player she would be. 

Confident that she could steady herself now he removed his hand from her side, the imprint of his fingers splayed against her flesh. He brought it down to where his mouth worked and added it to the torture, two fingers slipping inside while he worked her over. His hand did not lose pace on his cock, retaining the steady stroke that would keep him eager for her. 

He wanted her to break against him in this way, in this vulgar position, and stain herself once more.

 

**[Sansa]**

It was his index and middle, sinking into her, filling her entirely, that forced her over that edge. Her head tilted back, and the girl was learning to anticipate the last building seconds. She was beginning to understand how to let the feeling wash over her in waves, how to move against his fingers afterward to lengthen that pulsing. The keen she gave was his alone, a gift; no one else would hear that sound, no one else would have her the way he did, of that she was certain.  No one else would be the first.  

Her body relaxed as those ripples diminished, her eyes half closed in satisfaction, temples glistening in the window’s reflected light. And there was an urge for contact, for him to be closer then, and so the girl urged him up with her hands, with his name whispered sleepily on her lips, until he rose to meet her.  

And she could see that hunger still in him, his hand clasped around where his own desire was not yet sated. She pulled him close, one arm wrapping around his torso while the other joined his hand in stroking, legs still resting off the desk on either side of him. Her lips were parted watching his own, and she could see the remnants of herself on his mouth, a wetness that was not his own. A wicked thought entered her mind, and for several moments she stilled it, keeping the question unasked while her fingers caressed him.  

But the words slipped out, fueled by the image of how the man might respond. Her eyes met his, wider now in her boldness, in her honest curiosity, in the lingering drink in her system, and she asked. “How do I taste?”

 

**[Petyr]**

The break, when it happened, was as overwhelming as he could imagine. She clasped around him with tightened limbs, with tightened cunt, as the release took her. The sounds that left her were restrained just enough for there to be a sense of delicious constraint in there, the knowledge that this was very much something Not Done holding her back, tainting everything in its wake. 

It was just as delicious as the taste of her, coating his lips. He wore that as a mark of pride when she pulled him to her. Sansa sat on the desk sated, no longer seeming to care for modesty, and gripped his cock with a far more experienced hand. Their fingers entwined she began to join him in his stroke, their bodies so close that he was pressed against her lower stomach. He could picture the seed that would lay there soon enough, and he held that image in his mind until her question destroyed all other thoughts. 

Such a bold, wicked question from a girl like this, a girl who had been used but not completely soiled, who still had remnants of virtue and innocence about her. A girl so untrained, despite how open she was to this other life. Her eyes were just as curious as her words, and he could do nothing more but give in. 

“Delectable,” was half of his response. The other was to lean forward, to take her mouth then, to share with her the lust, his mouth open, begging her to explore. With their kiss his hand sped up, his mind full of nothing more than images of her, defiled and pleased, and he soon enough spilled herself over her. The short break had caused him to become pent up and the seed coated her thicker than before, a lurid thing. He groaned throughout his release, one hand wrapped tight about her body, her name barely noticeable on his lips.  

Catching his breath he could do nothing but admire it, his fingers now reaching out to graze the edges. He had had her in every way but the most significant one and yet he could not help but feel she was his completely, the fact that she allowed such a thing confirming it. There was no mistaking it–she was his, and he fully intended to treat her well. 

His fingers now coated with himself he raised his hand to her cheek, lingered about her mouth, hoping she took the hint to _share_.

 

**[Sansa]**

The man found her mouth, and rewarded her question with the contact she craved, open and urgent. Through him she could taste herself, the sharpness that could not be attributed to his saliva. She had no comparison, the tartness only aided her curiosity as their joined hands sped up around him. Too far gone, too exposed to care about the wrongness of it all, she brought his lower lip between her teeth lightly, running her tongue across for a better sample.  

His seed spilled and spilled, to her navel, flowing between her legs and onto the desk beneath her, the warmth giving away what her eyes could not see. She was gazing at him instead; watching him find his own end, that temporary and easily missed loss of power. She felt his groan against her chest, she heard her name, she never wanted this to end.  

The control was back as quickly as it left, and she watched as digits skimmed the lingering remnants on her abdomen. To her cheek those fingers went, leaving a trail of the fluid on their way to her mouth, and the girl knew what he wanted.  

It would be rude to refuse. Her lips parted, allowing the tips of his fingers to dip in.  

The taste of him was salty, strange to her tongue. Again, and she was certain not for the last time, she wondered if this was normal. Did women taste their husbands? Did it even matter, really; Petyr Baelish was not her husband. His actions could not be compared to the duties of a husband, in the same way that hers could not be considered wifely. And so, perhaps not in the way a wife would, she found his wrist, holding him as she led two of his fingers a bit deeper, dragging her tongue across, watching those greenish eyes all the while. 

She guided his digits out, craving his mouth again. It was slow, a mix of both of them, an intimacy she’d never known. Both sated, there was no desperation to guide their actions, and no rolling car to force them apart.   

She was still covered in him, his cooling seed a sheen on her skin. It should have bothered her, it should have shamed her, and perhaps it would later. But in that moment, the only thing she could see was him, and his appreciative stare, and the pride that lined the edges of his eyes.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her lips had met his with his with a sense of obedience that quickly melted away, replaced with actual desire. She had feasted on herself, his mouth bit and sucked upon so that she could gather every taste that lingered on his lips. It was that appetite, really, that sent him over the edge. 

Small waves of pleasure rocked his body in the aftermath, as he watched her take his offered fingers without hesitation. Clearly she relished it, her greedy mouth enveloping his digits, her grip hard on his wrist, her eyes open and locked with his, looking for some kind of a acknowledgement that she had done well. 

Petyr had no desire to not give her that, proud as he was. He had no desire not to tease her just a bit and watch her skin flush with his seed still on her. 

“Such a good girl,” he mumbled into her mouth when she went to kiss him. His fingertips were lightly stroking her sides, marveling at the exquisite dip of her waist. He was catching his breath, allowing his racing heart to settle, and he had no desire to do that outside of her presence. Her skin was salty, she tasted of brandy and sin, and that was not a sensation to be given up lightly.  

“Did you really think I would toss you aside?” An honest question; truly he wanted to know how she felt about him. If she was not fully committed it would make no sense to take her along, as he needed a partner that would not question, would merely learn.  

His fingers moved upward, between her breasts, and he found his goal at her chin. He took it lightly in hand and held her gaze.

 

**[Sansa]**

The question caught her off guard, more than being led to the desk, more than his tongue between her legs. The way he asked it carried a weight; her answer would mean a great deal. He was touching her still, skimming her sides as if it would pain him to let go. And worse; she never wanted him to.  

The girl’s eyes moved down, avoiding his for a moment, lost in thought. She stared at the buttons of his shirt, tired blue considering the man before her. Sansa Stark knew what he was; she knew even when his intended did not. And despite carrying that knowledge she followed him into the grove anyway, she pulled him onto her bed, she tasted his seed and yes, she enjoyed it.  

Whatever they had, it was more than some careless preoccupation before he fled again. There was risk in their meetings, and more than that, there was a needy desperation, a desire she knew he felt. It was shared, that feeling, and she knew where he led she would follow. The long and short of it, an unspoken thing; _she was his._  

His fingers moved to her chin, guiding her eyes in a slow drag up to him, and she had her answer. “I know you won’t.” And that was the truth of it. Any doubts she might have harboured, any lingering regret, had been washed away by his wandering hands, cleaned by his mouth all over her.  

“Will you dance with me, at the wedding?” It was with youthful eyes, full of hope and anticipation, but also the eyes of a lover, of someone who carried something darker inside, that watched him then, waiting for his response.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her question was an innocent one and yet Petyr sensed a hint of possession in the words, a shadow over her eyes that only served to pull him closer. He kissed her again, lingering over the taste of shared taste of them, his hands coming to rest flat on the desk so that, in effect, she was trapped.

He had never expected to be so enticed by this girl. Shortly after their meeting he had felt an attraction, yes, but nothing that said he would be this fixated upon her. It was at the point that he could not foresee leaving this house without her, come not devise any schemes for the future that did not involve her. Always she was there, charming a mark, flirting, telling woeful tales. Always she was there, cloaked in finery, needy and thankful for him. 

He could almost take her again now, his blood still heightened. 

“Of course I will.” The answer was spoken as if she did not even need to ask.  

He pushed himself away from the desk then, admiring her ruined form for a small distance, marveling over the way the light played off her skin. Her clothing was discarded on the floor, small waves of silk on the fine wood, and he toed it with one fine shoe. 

“Will you have another drink with me, before you go?” Anything to prolong this shared space.  

 

**[Sansa]**

When his hands came to rest on either side of her, as he led her into another kiss, she was trapped in more ways than one. It wasn’t simply his arms that caged her; it was his stare, his promises, his encouragements. But it was a cage of her own making as well; her basic instincts, her intrigue and the desire for something more, something freeing that attracted her to the man. Each time his mouth found hers the urge grew, compounding into something shared, something that might be sinister.  

He pulled away, and she remained on the desk, watching him toy with her dress. She felt the distance, then, her body growing cool at his absence, the seed drying at her stomach. It was the chill that forced her off the wooden surface, bare feet landing on the hard floor, softly padding toward the fabric found there.  

The girl knew she should refuse the drink; she was never allowed more than a single glass of anything, even at parties. But she couldn’t; her mind was already slightly hazy, lacking the inhibition to decline. And so she nodded, bending forward to pick up the wrinkled garment. She wiped herself off with the inside of the dress, confident she would appear presentable enough until she made the brief journey to her room. Sansa slid the material over her form, covering herself in the well-lit room.  

She went to him, watching him pour the familiar drink into their respective glasses, his hands graceful in their movements. “Will it be a fast dance, or a slow one?”  

The girl didn’t care about the brandy, really, or her undergarments forgotten on the floor, or even the dance she’d asked for; it was the leaden eyes, the greying temples and that awful smirk that centred her world.

 

**[Petyr]**

As she moved to right herself he did as well, tucking himself back into linen trousers, smoothing hair that had been gripped. It was a silent, shared act between the two of them, this correcting of themselves in order to enter back into society, and he knew it would not be the last.

When she went to take the dark liquor from him he noted her undergarments forgotten across the floor and smirked into his drink. A companion for the handkerchief, then.  
“Which would you desire?” He would dance every dance with her if possible but that simply could not be. Some attention to the mark must be paid if he were to succeed.    
Petyr downed his brandy in one gulp, savored the burn on his throat. His muscles, already relaxed, felt even more like liquid and he found himself resting in the chair, completely sated, the sound of the clock on the wall sharp in the silence. 

“It will be a large event, you know. Lysa’s orders. Such events can be quite profitable, as you will see, but they also give you the benefit of slipping away from the crowd.” He let her reflect on that, his eyes never leaving hers, those blue orbs dark above the shine of her glass.  


	5. Chapter 5

**[Petyr]**

As with before, they kept their distance for days, only seeing each other at meals. Lysa demanded more and more of his attention as the week passed and the only communication he had with Sansa were heated gazes, pointed bites of food. 

It was on borrowed time that they lingered here; he felt it keenly now. He saw in Sansa that she was already gone, already lost in the world that he had promised, her expression barely changing with her aunts orders and cruelty. And if he did not have such a definable goal he would be too. Picturing her in a multitude of future scenarios of wealth, lust, and power was infinitely more pleasing to him than any aspect of his reality. 

It would all end sooner rather than later, of course. A necessary evil. 

 

**[Sansa]**

  
And while Petyr was pulled away for all manner of reasons, Sansa kept herself busy. Her fingers grew sore from the stitching, legs ached from wandering the grounds and avoiding her aunt’s terrible gaze. She looked forward to each shared meal, each chance to catch the man’s eye, to see him again. 

A dress hung, lovely and long and mossy green, inside of her wardrobe. There was no way her aunt could spin a believable tale of her absence, especially after the letter came from the larger estate across town. Sansa wasn’t privy to the contents of the note entirely, but she knew Harry had requested her company for the night, and Lysa Arryn knew better than to offend her affluent friends.  

The day crept nearer, and eventually the evening before the wedding arrived. It was late; she’d lost track of time while working in the main room. She was nearly finished with her project, the pads of her fingers only needed to guide the small needle through the fabric a few more careful times and it would be done.  

Her aunt had gone to bed before the sun set, intent on a full night of _beauty sleep_ when her special day arrived. Her fiancé followed just after, likely to his own room; Lysa had muttered something about the man not sharing her bed the evening before they were to be married. The thought of him without the woman made Sansa smile softly to herself.  

It was out of the corner of her eye that she saw him, too focused on her work to have heard the man approach. Startled, she thrust the fabric behind her back, hiding the finished product from him. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” The words were mumbled as she stood to greet him, hands still hidden from his sight.  

But she could hide that she was pleased to see him. “You’ll be a married man tomorrow. Are you nervous?” As she teased, she wondered if he’d been married before. She never thought to ask, and it seemed an awful time to bring the question up. Instead, the girl took a few steps closer, clinging tightly to the concealed cloth. It was a gift she held, a wedding present for the man before her.

 

**[Petyr]**

  
For days he had been content to merely linger in her presence, catching glimpses and scents here or there. But with Lysa abed, with the day approaching, he found himself seeking her out almost without thought. His feet carried him to the main hall, his step languid but sure, and before he knew it the distance between them was not so great. 

Sansa was not pleased, however, to see him, and she went to great lengths to hide the fabric in her hands, a blush forming on her face. _A surprise._

“And who is this surprise for?” He mirrored her own steps, the two of them growing closer and closer. Petyr was used to having gifts, money, attention thrust upon him until the benefactor dried up, and he certainly appreciated these things, but never had he felt the strange pull he did now. A gift from Sansa, clutched in her hands. The very idea of it had beauty.  

“I will be a married man,” he agreed. There was only a small gulf between them now. Petyr thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked down, averting his eyes from the gift, letting her have her secret. “And no, I’m not. It’s just another step.” He wasn’t nervous, truly, though he felt that kind of excited unease that one got while playing this game. A brittle energy that he had grown to love.  

He had not missed the teasing nature of her voice, the pleasure she took in speaking to him. He decided to give back. “Will you have me leave so that you can finish?”

 

**[Sansa]**

“For you.” Her tone carried the real words spoken: _Of course it’s for you._ Strange, how she still felt that warmth in her cheeks, that girlish flush, in his presence. The man has touched every part of her, his eyes had scanned her body without a thread of clothing, and he still maintained that pull with her.   

He posed his own toying question, and the girl was quick to respond. “No!” She said the words too hastily, unwilling to see him gone so soon. “Please stay. You can see it, the surprise. I’ll show you.” It didn't really matter which day the gift was given; the wedding was a pretense, an act of deceit orchestrated by the man. Perhaps the day before was more suitable, anyway.    
Her arms shifted, coming between them to present the piece of cloth she’d been meticulously stitching for a week. She held it out to him, with a small measure of unease, eyes averting his gaze. Would he think it childish, or simply unfit for a man used to much finer things? The girl found herself regretting the gift entirely for a moment, now that it lingered in the space before him. 

It was a handkerchief, clean and white with neat edges. At one corner were his initials, _PB_ , sewn ornately in a dark green hue. Underneath the letters was an embroidered mockingbird, one she’d noticed on some of his papers, in the same mossy colour.  

“It’s nothing special, I just thought….” _And what did she think?_ Her mind traveled back to the grove, to his soiled handkerchief. She’d wanted to give him a replacement, a reminder; something for him alone, and no one else.

 

**[Petyr]**

  
When he spoke of leaving she nearly jumped, her whole being alerted to the task of keeping him in her presence. Not that he minded, of course, for being so long outside of her influence had been a terrible drain. To simply be here, in this room, sharing her air, was like water to a parched man. 

Sansa held the gift out nervously. It sat in her palms, an offering, a remnant of herself. A fine handkerchief, completely unsoiled, his initials and mockingbird stitched with care. 

Petyr was used to receiving gifts. He had handkerchiefs of the finest silks, and with just a word to Lysa he could ensure he would have one for every day of the year. The girl would know this, of course, and yet she still gave this to him. She gave him care, and time, and something of hers that he could have always. Tomorrow night, when he danced with Lysa, he could carry this in his pocket, a physical remembrance. 

“It’s lovely,” he said in a low voice, none of the artifice he had grown accustomed to in past days reaching his tone. He took it from her gently, held it with care. One long finger traced the thread, the dark green. He was reminded of something he had seen being delivered to the house and a wry smile took his face as he examined it. “So that we will match, yes?”  
 

**[Sansa]**

Her eyes came up to meet his, then, at the compliment. _Lovely_ , he’d said, and it wasn’t in the false tone he used when speaking to her aunt or the house staff. She was learning his different voices, his different faces; which ones he put on and when and why. A running tally was kept in her head as she learned more about him, although sometimes a discovery only led to more questions. He was a puzzle, a mystery, and she was only beginning to piece him together.  

He must have caught sight of the dress, the same colour as the embroidery on his gift. “I tried to match it to your eyes, but I couldn’t find the right shade precisely.” It was an honest answer, but not complete; she had chosen the dress for him. She wondered if she might have been too forward with the garment, but his face betrayed no ire.  

There was something wicked, something enticing, about a hidden handkerchief, a secret match against her green dress. For the first time, she was looking forward to her aunt’s wedding. Even across a hall, or in the arms of his wife, she would know he carried a reminder of the girl.  

The room was poorly lit, the hour growing quite late. The house was an eerie sort of quiet, having been bustling incessantly the several days before. She could hear her own breathing, measured and calm, as she realised just what time it must be.  

“You should be resting. You have a long day ahead of you.” Sansa’s hands were still at her stomach, fidgeting with her fingers. “We should be in bed.” But even as the girl spoke she made no motion to move. In truth, she simply didn’t want to.  

  
**[Petyr]**

He studied the thread again. He could see the shade of his eyes there, and wondered if that might not have been a factor in the choice of her dress. Regardless, it would be an exquisite compliment for her auburn hair, and the idea of seeing her in such a gown was enough to convince him that tomorrow would not be entirely painful.

“Quite a good match, I would say. I must find something the shade of your eyes to wear–to compliment.” He smiled then, his long fingers still caressing the cloth in his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Even with the poor light he could see the shine there, the pride, and he wanted nothing more than to continue to drink her in.  

“Should we now?” Petyr’s voice rose slightly then, making her nervous statement into something much more tainted. Sansa was not moving and neither was he, their breathing all too noticeable in the closed room. 

“It is bad luck to see the bride before a wedding, so I’m afraid I must retire to my own rooms tonight. If I am to sleep–though, to tell you the truth, I find it hard to rest before big days, don’t you?” If she didn’t she would soon enough. Her blood would sing with the prospect of some great achievement, her mind would race as she practiced every little detail, just as his did. Soon enough sleep would be hard to come by. 

And of course the best schemes were often planned under cover of darkness. 

“May I have this tonight?” He held the gift between them, his fingers still tight on the fabric, unwilling to let it go. 

 

**[Sansa]**

She smiled at the thought of it, of Petyr wearing something just for her. Two things now, really; an embroidered gift and something blue. And what would he choose? The tilt of her mouth deepened as she pondered. It would make an occasion spent with Harrold somehow tolerable.  

How lovely it felt, to be thought of, to be wanted. 

When he spoke again, he confirmed his solitude for the evening. “I suppose I won’t get much sleep either.” The girl found herself entirely too awake; the mere presence of the man so near to her seemed to keep her eyes alert, her heartbeat just a little faster, her body alight.  

At his request, her hands parted with the cloth, leaving it with him. “Of course. It’s yours, after all.” _And so am I, really_ ; again, the words unspoken but her voice dripped with the sentiment.  

She may have been the one to recommend retiring for the evening, but she was having difficulty leaving, taking the first step away from the man, even as their hands were no longer connected by the handkerchief. She had no real cause to remain, no reason to keep him longer. But the house was so quiet, and they were so alone, and he held her gift in his hand so carefully; she could not part with him yet. Her eyes drifted down, away from his own gaze and down to his mouth.  

“Will you walk me to my room?” A poor excuse, especially when fighting that building urge inside to draw him closer, but it was the only one she had.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her voice had such a proper tone when she said those words, so in contrast with what generally transpired between them behind closed doors. Other than a slight tremble in her timbre there was nothing to indicate she was merely speaking to a soon-to-be uncle, nothing to suggest anything untoward. Sansa would not have spoken in such a way mere weeks before, not with this level of skill or deceit. There was nothing in that that did not please him. 

Petyr folded the gift neatly and placed it in his pocket. It burned, the lingering reminder of her. 

He would have to thank her properly, soon enough. 

“Of course.” He extended his arm then, his movement matching the respect in her words. That she leaned against him perhaps a little too hard would be unnoticed by anyone else. 

As they made their way up the stairs he heard a bustle, the servants clearly still hard at word as the night grew late. Her skirt grazed him as they walked and oh, how he wished to rip that off. To push her into her rooms and devour her, to ease the way into the morning. 

But his caution was getting the better of him. There was still activity and there would be until the morning, with nothing to hide behind. More servants than usual had been employed and secrecy was in short supply. 

At her darkened doorway he stopped. Petyr reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb sweeping over her lip, likely to be the only risk they were to take.  Tomorrow, however? There would be a din, there would be chaos, and that was where he _thrived._

“Will you meet me here, at 10:15pm?”   After dinner, after dancing, after drinks. Before Lysa made her claim, he would have this.  

 

**[Sansa]**

When his thumb reached her mouth she parted her lips, allowing the caress. She didn’t have the courage to bring her arm to touch him in return; the noises indicating others nearby served to still her limbs.   

At his request, she nodded, blindly grabbing for the door handle, unwilling to break their eye contact until she entered the room. She closed the door behind her, leaning against the wooden frame, closing her eyes. Already she was planning ways to rid herself of Harry after 10; excuses she could use, pretty girls she could tempt him to dance with. She wondered how Petyr would break himself of his wife. 

Her feet brought her to the bed, and much like him, she found herself quite unable to sleep.

-

The day started later for Sansa than her aunt. By the time she was awake, she could already hear the busy household downstairs, the constant muffled sounds of cars coming and going with deliveries, of servants clanging pots and pans, of her aunt’s shrieks at every misstep by anyone at all.  

She kept to herself for the morning and early afternoon, only rushing into the kitchen to grab a bit of food for breakfast. Lysa’s future husband hadn’t been there, likely keeping her aunt under control before the guests arrived. 

Eventually she donned her gown and short heels, pinned her hair and added a touch of powder to her cheeks. She had no jewelry, nothing to adorn herself with save a brooch carefully set aside; she did not wish to have the object brought up in Harry’s presence. And after, she made her way down the stairs, some of the arrivals already seated.  

Her own companion was already seated, and she went to him, dutifully, awaiting the rest of the guests, and for the wedding to begin.

 

**[Petyr]**

A few stiff drinks of brandy were not enough to allow him to settle that night, but he had grown quite used to such lack of sleep. In the morning when he awoke he showed no signs of the restless night. Nothing but pure excitement for the day ahead laid upon his face. 

Of course, were the servants to know the true cause of his pleasure he would face unending scorn. As it was he was barely noticed. Lysa demanded all the attention, Lysa sent the servants scurrying. Lysa was determined to make this a perfect day. Petyr was only attended to when she needed something. He was bathed, he was dressed, he was made to look as she wished. He accepted it all without a word, with little more than a private smile. 

In his pocket he carried her handkerchief. The pin through his tie was the most unusual shade of blue.

He kept to the fringes of the house, surveying all, trying to get a feel for the assembled crowd. Lysa’s people they were, the old money of the town (though perhaps now not so moneyed). When spoken to his voice took on an air of nervousness, as if he could not believe his good fortune at having such a wife. It seemed to endear them all, somehow. 

Sansa was always in his frame of vision, her sandy-haired escort at her side. He was a useless thing, though he had proven to be a good cover once and perhaps he would again. Still Petyr found he could not look at them for long without feeling the need to pull away, lest some shadow overtake his face. When he did catch Sansa’s gaze he held it for as long as he could. 

Tonight. He watched the clock on the wall, he let his fingers linger of her gift. He thought of her when Lysa arrived, thought of nothing else but that _pull_ throughout. The words spoken were lost in the din of his blood.

 

**[Sansa]**

The boy was a brute in a gentleman’s disguise; she saw through him straight away. A charming smile and bright eyes as he sat beside her for the ceremony, but there was something awful underneath. Years ago, or even months ago, she might have been taken with him, deceived by the false courtesy he wore.  

But she knew better these days, and she wore a similar polite mask on her own face, one that would demure on cue, or giggle at his words. She could play this part, this role, because she knew at the end of the evening it would all be over.  

She saved her true face for the brief glances she made to the man of the day, the groom to the lady of the house. The girl kept him in her periphery, her eyes matching the clip of his tie, bringing a smile to her face. It was a smile that faltered when he spoke the words to her aunt: _I do_. And her chest tightened, jealousy burning her insides, when he kissed his wife. Her face betrayed nothing.  

The reception was a whirl. Harry refused to part with her, as if she was a prize he didn’t want to lose. Dance after dance they swayed, only stopping for the boy to refill their glasses. Hours ticked by, and the girl grew worried that she would not be able to escape his clutches; his whispers in her ear that made her fight back a cringe, the touches that toed the line of propriety with each added swig of liquor he took, the way he eyes surveyed her as if she wasn’t a girl, but a thing. 

And Petyr seemed to be having no better luck. Lysa loomed around him constantly, unrelenting. She watched the woman clutch his arm, drag him through the crowd as if she had a prize of her own. Despite herself, Sansa still harboured that greenish irritation; she wanted him for herself.  

It was just after 10, and Harry still seemed eager to enjoy himself, keeping her on the floor as the music continued. But Sansa had planned her out already; a complaint of fatigue, her aching feet, and a lovely replacement in the form of a pretty brunette who was known for her promiscuity bought her time to step away.  

As she made her way to the room, the time 10:17, she wondered if Petyr would be able to free himself from his blushing bride.

 

**[Petyr]**

The din in his ears continued throughout the evening. Petyr was able to charm them all well enough, skilled as he was at such things, but he felt such an unease throughout that occasionally he wondered it it showed through the mask he wore. He avoided most drinks, wishing to keep his wits about him, but he had to admit the burn would be satisfying, would help to deaden his emotions. Lysa had an iron grip on him, her mouth a prattle, parading him about like a prize won. And Sansa lingered on the edges, the boy growing closer and closer to her, grazing skin meant for him. 

He would have to grow used to such a thing, were he to have her work a room, but this early in their partnership he felt he could be afforded some more primal feelings. He watched the boy (and he was such a _boy_ ) lead her about, his mind full of thoughts of what lay beneath her dress, of what he would soon have wrapped in his arms. It was a thought that took him through the night. 

Lysa drank and drank and drank, girlish excitement overtaking her. She held court among society, her laughter a sharp note in his ear. The clock on the wall counted down the time and as it grew closer and closer to 10 he felt that odd rush of anxious excitement. 

When the clock rang he knew he had to make his move. Lysa was more than occupied by gossip, the tale of some girl’s ruin lighting up the room. The more she spoke the further apart they grew, until he found himself in the shadows of a cooler foyer. It would be some time before he was missed, and even if he was who would look for him in Sansa’s room? 

Quiet would have to be the order of the night, then. A loss, really, but one that had a charm of its own.

With his bride just in the corner of his eye he moved up the steps on soft feet, the thrill rising in him.

 

**[Sansa]**

As the minutes crept by, as she nearly counted the seconds, the girl was certain he wouldn’t be able to meet her. She wouldn’t lay the blame on him, of course; it was her aunt that would have prevented their meeting. And could Sansa really blame her? It was her wedding night after all, of course she would want to spend it with her new husband.  

In reality she was simply content to be away from Harry. She wondered just how much time she could secure away, before anyone began to ask questions or search for her. A great deal of time, she suspected; as long as her beau was preoccupied with the tart on his arm no one else would care if she was absent.  Not one but the man with the tie clip that matched her eyes. 

As if beckoned by her thoughts the door slid open, and Petyr was there. “You came.” Words she whispered into the air, just as soon as the door was closed. “I didn’t think-” But she let the words hang; did she really doubt him? She had no reason to, not yet. He said he would meet her, and again, the man was true to his word.  

She walked to him, closing the distance in their solitude, and the relief was plain on her face; she had no need for the false courtesies or the fake, girlish laughs now that she was rid of the blonde boy. Eyes drifted to the tie, to the clip, and her fingers reached out to touch it. She tilted her mouth in an easy smile as her stare moved to meet his own green eyes. “We didn’t get to dance, uncle.” The smile widened, a tease.

But in truth, she didn’t need a dance, she didn’t need an audience. What she longed for was him, and nothing else.

 

**[Petyr]**

And so he entered her room for the second time. On this occasion he held his breath, kept his eyes wide so that he might take in every aspect of her face. Curious it was that it was his second entrance that left him in such a state, as if he was ready to take in a religious experience. Perhaps it was their previous encounter, infusing the room with some memory of itself, that enticed him so. Perhaps it was the mere knowledge of what was to be done.

Petyr closed the distance between them without a word, her fingers rising to meet him as he did so. They lingered on the clip, on that symbol of something, and he could not help the smile that pulled at him. The first real smile of the night. 

“Is that what you would like?” His hands skimmed her sides then, absorbing the feel of the fine silk. Silk to match his gift, silk to match his eyes. One arm snaked behind in the mockery of a waltz, pulling her closer and closer to him until the space between them was nothing. Lips met; he could taste the fine food, the wine, everything that was _her._

Pulling back he curled a finger under her chin and held it there, observing. There was a wicked glee in her eyes that was new. He wanted to test that. 

“I suppose that would be more fitting for my new role, wouldn’t you say?” A hand curled in her dress, dragging it up ever so slightly, not nearly enough to be improper.  

Despite the rising heat his mind was still working. The title sounded good on her lips. “That will be a nice role for later, wouldn’t you say? For when we leave?” An uncle and niece for arise no suspicion, there would not be the expectations that came with father and daughter. Marks would not even take note of them. And it would not even be a lie! Such deceptions worked best when there was some aspect of the truth in them, after all. 

“I will insist you call me Petyr, though.” Nothing else would do for here, when they were wrapped in each other. 

 

**[Sansa]**

His hands on her waist, his mouth on hers, and he belonged there; they simply _fit_. Against him she felt the relief wash over her; taking in his familiar scent, of mint and drink and something his alone. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deep as he pulled her near.  

“Uncle and niece? Yes…” She mulled the idea over, and she could picture it clearly; walking into a hotel or restaurant, her arms linked platonically with her darling uncle’s. No one would have cause to doubt they were anything other than family; a decent man caring for his niece, alone in the world. In fact, the ruse might ensure easier targets, what woman could refuse such a man? “You’ll have your choice of partners, then, so kind and loving you are to your poor, orphaned ward.” She planted a kiss, soft and chaste to his cheek, as if demonstrating what sort of dutiful ward she might be.

But alone, away from prying eyes and new wives and beaus, it was a game she would not be able to maintain. Already she could feel the heat building below her abdomen, memories of a previous night spent in her bed flooding her rationality.

At the man’s insistence she nodded, pressing herself closer to him. Perhaps it was the wedding, watching her aunt display her prize for hours, or even the lingering feel of Harry’s breath on her neck or the clumsy boy’s hands on her hips; she couldn’t be sure. Whatever the reason, she brought her mouth to his again in a deeper kiss, her mouth open and wanting against his, an inexperienced attempt to make a claim of her own, an odd sort of jealousy stinging in her chest.

“Petyr.” The word was a plea, a prayer. She did not know how much time they had to spare, or who might come looking for the two that were missing. The girl was desperate to make the most of their time together.

 

**[Petyr]**

The din of the party below was constant, a low level of noise that worked both for and against them. On the fringes of this they were unlikely to be missed and any sounds that came from this room were very likely to be swallowed up. However, they were also not able to hear any approaching footsteps quite as clearly. Petyr had ensured that the door was locked behind them, but that would only buy them a certain amount of time. 

Her innocent words only stirred him further; he had been half-hard for her all evening, and now? His hands were digging into her, holding her about the neck and waist, his mouth a glutton. 

_She’ll have her choice of partners as well._ The thought only made him dig into her skin with vigor. He could not deny the gut-reaction he had had to her beau, and the fact that perhaps it would always be like that. Nor could he ignore the sharpness in her tone when she spoke of him and women, or how familiar it was in his ears. 

_Nothing more than money, nothing more than success_. It was this thought that he must keep in his mind from this point forward. Perhaps it would be easier when they had a clear plan, when they were away, when they were explicitly a pair. 

Petyr pulled back then and favored her with a smile that was nothing but desire, though of a darker breed than what that stupid young man granted her. “Did you enjoy that boy’s attentions?” His voice was a reflection of her own.

His hands were busy, tangling in her dress, already starting with his claim.

 

**[Sansa]**

Time and time and time. Perhaps when they left her aunt behind they would have more of it; time to tease each other longer, to take their moments slowly. Sansa couldn’t deny, however, she enjoyed their secret meeting, the noises heard through the closed door a reminder of where they were both meant to be. Still, worry and haste taunted her, mingling between her growing desire, the need for his hands on her bare skin, the simple need for him.

A year ago, even weeks ago, she never would have thought she’d be wrapped around a man so deceptive, a man old enough to be her father. An uncle now, one whose fingers dug into her, branding her as his own. She never would have thought she’d enjoy it, crave it the way she did. To be wanted, to thirst and be thirsted for, was as divine as it was sinister. The girl pulled at his tie, loosing it enough to pull over his head. One last look to the clip and the tie was tossed to the floor.

She could hear it in his edges of his voice, that same bitterness she had when she thought of Lysa Arryn in his arms. And the boy; how did she feel? “He’s an oaf.” The girl dismissed him, her voice hiding none of her disgust. “A lout with bags of his father’s money to waste.” How could he compare, really, to Petyr Baelish?

She brought her mouth back to his, another kiss; this one soft and lingering. “And your new wife? Do you miss her?” _Show me you don’t miss her._ While his hands moved to her dress her own travelled to the buttons of his impeccable shirt, beginning to pull the fastenings apart one by one.

 

**[Petyr]**

Any nervousness he had with the idea of being stripped bare was done away by the heat of her mouth, the eagerness of her hands, the dismissive and calculated way she spoke of that boy. _A lout with money._ Perhaps they would be wise not to toss him aside just yet. 

When she spoke of Lysa his face must have taken on the same sort of disgust hers had when she mentioned Harrold–perhaps more, considering he still had to share his wife’s bed this evening. He didn’t respond, preferring to let the lingering kisses, the eager way his hands unburdened her of her dress, speak for him.

He had her bare soon enough, the scraps of silk a pool at her feet. Her hair was still in its pins, which only increased the loveliness of her body. This was a form that was painted, that was meant to be admired. And this form, in all its deceptive purity, was his. 

He had no illusions about how she viewed him, When he reached out to cup a breast, to drag his fingers down to the tuft of auburn between her legs, he noted the hunger in her gaze, felt the way she gripped him through his open shirt. When he led her down to the bed she pulled at his trousers, wanton. No, he was as much hers and she would claim him. 

An oddly comforting thought. 

Petyr covered her, his hands digging, his mouth exploring every inch of her neck before moving to take a breast. A swipe of his tongue and her nipples were hard, a bite of his teeth and she was moaning like a whore. 

A hand between her legs then, parting her lips, his mouth laughing against her skin at how soaked she was. Sansa grew flush then and he could not help himself from pulling up, from taking her in, from teasing just a bit. 

“Have you been like this all evening?” A sly lift of the eyebrow accompanied these words, his fingers dipping in for another taste. 

 

**[Sansa]**

The way fingers pressed into her, the haste with which he rid her of the dress, served as a confirmation to Sansa. Lysa was nothing, just as Harry was nothing. They were insignificant, worthless for anything other than money or maintaining a ruse. His eyes matched hers in their baser, more instinctive need as he felt her, his touch as desperate as her own.

The bed was a familiar comfort, her bare skin on display for him as she let herself be guided onto the mattress, eager for the feel of him. Her legs parted as he guided himself atop her, shielding her from the world. His mouth, his teeth on her breast and she arched into him, and a groan escaped despite the need for quiet. _No one would hear_ , she told herself; the music, the chatter, was much too loud for the greedy noises she was making, the sounds he pried from her.

As he stared down to his prize, and it was a gift she would happily give him, she could plainly see the pleased smile on his face. She drank him in as well, then; his shirt was hanging loose and open, wrinkling at the edges, and the long, jagged scar displayed along his torso. It was intriguing, an odd thing for a man such as himself to wear. She resisted the urge to reach out and skim her finger along it; there would be time later to ask.

At his question the girl shook her head. The room, his clever fingers playing against her, his sharp tongue, were the cause for the throbbing between her legs. “It’s for you.” Did she need to say it? She was already lost against him, alight and searing, delirious for more and more.

She pulled him closer with one hand, breath heavy against his mouth. The other hand crept between them, continuing what she’d started moments earlier, her hand gently taking hold of his hardness. And she began to stroke; light and teasing, as his own fingers toyed with her.  

Her pelvis lifted into his hand, searching for more pressure, his name on her lips before she found his mouth again.

 

**[Petyr]**

_For you._ Every movement she had made confirmed that, but hearing it fall from her mouth when she was in such a state? He could think of nothing finer. His back arched with a possessive need; his own groan almost as ill-constrained as hers. His fingers rewarded her, his touch increasing in pressure as her hips sought it out, digits sliding inside, accompanied by the familiar suck.  

His own body was tightly coiled with the need for more. Her fingers around his cock were light, giving him just enough to make his blood rush. He wanted to feel her skin on skin, wanted to remember every move of her body, every hitched breath. Reluctantly he parted from her, kicking his trousers away, not caring for any wrinkles that would appear. A change of clothes before he met Lysa, a story of a spilled wine goblet–that would be all that would be needed. His shirt soon followed, and then they were equals. 

He didn’t give her long to observe. He dragged his body back across hers, his heavy cock, slick with pre-come, leaving trails across her skin. He arched above her, his hands lightly gripping her wrists, pinning her down before him so that she had to rock her hips in order to get any contact. His cock was sliding between her legs now, growing more and more slick with their shared need, before he pulled away and moved up her stomach. He repeated this act several times, until they were both so on edge that nothing, not even Lysa in the hall, would stop them.

“What is it you want from your uncle, sweetling?” His voice was harsh, the tease not as evident under the screen of his own need. 

 

**[Sansa]**

His form left her, and she felt the warmth go with him. The girl watched her newly appointed uncle, her chest heaving as he pulled away from her hand, removing the last pieces of fabric on his body. And when he returned he was exposed as well, the hair on his chest brushing against her hardened nipples, his bare thighs settling between her open legs. The sounds of the party were nothing to her now; she was lost in the still-newness of it, his skin an easy press against hers, the humid air they shared. Her hair was falling from its neatly pinned state, the powder lingering on her face could not hide her flush. 

But she saw his starved gaze and she could not find it in her to worry about what happened after, or what state she would be left in. 

He caged her, a torture she relished with a soft moan as he held her by the wrists. And the poor girl writhed under him, his own primal sounds only compounding the throbbing between her legs.  

Unable to control her hands, she used her upper back as leverage, arching her hips up to him, chasing the feeling that built each time she brushed against him, and still wanting more. One leg wrapped around his own, a wanton attempt to keep him down as he asked what she wanted. “Please, Petyr.” She dare not call him uncle, lest he leave her desperate and writhing.  

One wrist rotated in his hold, intertwining her fingers with his as she remained pinned. “Show me.” _Have me._ She didn’t know, exactly, what she was asking for. Or perhaps she did, but had no way of explaining, not in her frenzy. She shuddered against him, mouth opening to his again, moaning as he pressed against her once more, a warm slide at her apex.

 

**[Petyr]**

He would have liked to have her beg and tell him, in exact words, what exactly she wanted him to do to her. _Take me. Defile me. Fuck me_. The thought of such fevered, lustful words coming from her lips consumed him for a moment, and he allowed all sense of reason to leave him. Perhaps he would make her beg at some later date, in a place where they might be heard…

But it would be a later date. Time was in short supply now, and his body had a need that he simply could not restrain for much longer. 

Sansa was lifting her leg, curling herself about him, positioning him where she wanted him. Inexperienced as she was, she knew what she craved. With his mouth on hers he dragged his hips so that the head of himself spread her lips, tasting her heat. 

One hand, the one entangled with hers, kept her pinned to the bed, while the other dragged itself down to wrap about his cock. He was heavy in his hand, thick and aching for her. He would need to be careful, would need to hold himself back, or he would risk giving her no pleasure. 

“Show you,” he repeated, his voice low. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed inward, his fingers guiding himself. She opened about him, stretched in a way she had never been stretched before and _fuck_  she was already almost impossibly tight.

Already he felt a surge of ecstasy. Already he needed to close his eyes and hold himself back.  

The head of himself was now inside and he paused there for a moment, allowing her to get a sense of the size of him. “Like this?” Petyr held himself up and back, studied her face, moved his free hand over to lift her by the hip.

 

**[Sansa]**

She hadn’t given much thought about it until the moment came; what she was prepared to give, what he was about to take. Her mind had been clouded, hazy with the feel of him, with her own need. But the time had arrived, her legs opened now for the man married to her aunt, her family, and she was ready to let go.  

The girl took a breath, a trembling inhalation, as he slowly began to fill her.

Her entire body tensed, vision freezing behind wide eyes. There was an uncomfortable pressure as he pressed into her, aided somewhat by the slickness of him. The girl’s free arm wrapped around the his torso, seeking aid, seeking some sort of comfort, an antidote for the strange fear of something new and unknown that was temporarily trumping the sensation she’d felt.

His hand tangled with hers still, and she relaxed; she trusted him.

As that vision cleared she could see his pleasure it brought him, his own eyes closing as hers remained wide. The man paused, and there was a spark there, where they joined, beyond the pressure; the girl clung to it as she clung to the man. He looked down, assessing, and she lifted her head to plant a kiss to his mouth. A breathy whisper into his mouth, a request, and one she knew would make him groan: “More.”

She wanted it; she wanted to feel him, entirely, inside of her. The leg wrapped around him tightened, urging him on, prepared now for the feel of him. He angled her hip with his hand, sinking deeper, and her mouth hung open, sucking in a hasty breath as she acclimated. The arm at his torso pulled him nearer; there needn’t be any space between them any longer.

 

**[Petyr]**

She was gripping him so tightly one would think he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. In truth he felt more than a bit lost himself, his chest tight as he slowly filled her, his body taunt as he listened to her responses. 

She was slick around him, her whole body ready for him, and he resisted to urge to tease her too much for this, fearful that any shame would cause her to draw back. Instead he held her close as he took more and more of her, giving her what she had asked for with her rasp of a voice. 

When he filled her completely he anticipated the pain that would overtake her body. He thrust fast and hard, the hand from her hip going to her mouth, to muffle her cry. The hand at her side remained where it was, letting her grip him for all her might. 

Settled inside he took several breaths, allowing her to do the same. He relished the feel of being sheathed in her, her tight walls wrapping around him. He took a moment to reflect on the fact that he was the first, he was the one that brought her down this path, that this was his and only his.

“Like this?” he whispered against her neck. He rocked his hips just a bit, the start of a thrust. His hand remained where it was across her mouth, loose but in place. 

 

**[Sansa]**

It made sense, that her mother never truly prepared her for it. Sansa had always been preoccupied with fantasy, with the idea of a perfect love and a fairy tale sort of happiness. A mother would never knowingly destroy those dreams within a girl. But destroyed they were, and not by her mother. Life had shown her the truth of it, the cruelness of the world, the lies that came with every supposed happy ending.  

It was strange then, and somehow fitting that she rested underneath a man who stood to propagate that bitter truth.

With his hand over her mouth, muffling her cry, no one would hear them through the door. No one would be any wiser; there would be no tales of the groom ruining his niece on his wedding night. Or of how the girl had begged for him to show her, to take her. No stories of how she kept him closer, with her arm and leg wrapped tightly around him as they waited for the pain to subside.  

And when it did, when the pain dulled to a light soreness, the man began to move inside her, and it seemed to further calm the ache, replacing it with something better, something familiar. As he rocked he brushed the throbbing place above where he was fully seated, and the girl found herself lifting her hips, angling up to chase it.

She could feel the cool metal of the newly gifted ring on his third finger; it pressed against her mouth as they moved, cool and smooth. Sansa closed her eyes, her body beginning to writhe against him again, that irresistible pull, his whisper sending a shiver down her neck. Her response was a moan into his palm, an encouragement, fingers tightening around his.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr moved his hips experimentally, giving her short and shallow thrusts that did not remove the full length of him. One would think him inexperienced, testing the waters as he was, but he was merely giving her time to open herself to him, to unravel the tight bounds of her restraint. 

This is not to say he didn’t enjoy this slow movement. It allowed him to feel every inch of her, to fully envelope himself in her, to know what it truly was to be joined with her. It was euphoric, this sensation, and perhaps he was not as experienced as he believed, for nothing he had ever felt had prepared him for this. 

Slowly Sansa uncoiled, her hips rising to meet his and take him in. His thrusts grew deeper now, his cock aided by her mix of need and blood, and he found it harder and harder to hold himself back. 

“Do you like this?” He mumbled into her neck. As he spoke he slid all the way out, slowly, and then back in again, back to the warmth and heat. Again and again he did so, each time his thrusts growing more and more erratic. He was holding himself back from spilling, allowing her to get the full sensation of this, eager to feel her clench about him, but it was growing more and more difficult. Inside her, wrapped in her, he wanted nothing more than to leave her aching. 

 

**[Sansa]**

She was learning to meet him each time he undulated into her, discovering just how to position her pelvis to set those sensitive nerves alight. It was so new, she relied on his bucking motions, slow at first, to grow accustomed to the foreign dance. Deeper, longer strokes, and the girl met him, tentative, exploratory, until her reason began to fail her, until the sensation of him was all she knew.

He moved faster, less inhibited inside of her, and oh, how she wanted to break apart; how she wanted to see him shatter as well. Their haste was becoming mutual, pace speeding up in the rush that came with sought ecstasy. Her free leg joined the other wrapping around him, greedy in her search, caging him in the same way he had her trapped.

And what was the fast-dissolving ache, really, in comparison to the sensation of him filling her? He spoke into her neck again, and she questioned whether she even felt that pain at all anymore; it merely seemed to magnify the heat at her core, bringing her closer to the edge. She nodded into him, attempting to muster words between her unchecked, rapid breaths, between her body arching under him.

“Yes.” The answer spoken into his hand, too loudly and not loudly enough. There was no lying, not in the state she was in. She was his, and in that moment she could claim him for herself as well, so lost he seemed in his own pleasure.

And then, it was his name she gasped, a capitulation of that claim. Her mouth hung open as her head fell back onto the sheets, her senses blurring together as she found that blinding summit.

 

**[Petyr]**

She tightened and tightened and then she broke and, _oh_ , it was like nothing he had seen before. 

Petyr arched himself back to marvel at her, his hands still in place against her reddened skin. Her hair, falling from its pins, lay across the pillow in an elegant tangle, her limbs were locked against him, and nothing but his name came from his lips. He felt a surge of power, that unmistakable sense of ego that came with giving pleasure, at the sight of her spent before him. And the knowledge that he was the first, that before this moment she had known nothing of this ecstasy, only heightened his satisfaction. 

The admiration lasted for only a second, his mind unable to concentrate for long on anything other than the thrust and the search for his own release. He let Sansa catch her breath, allowed her a moment to hold on to the perfection of her pleasure, and then he was at it again. Violent thrusts rocked the bed, an unmistakable need to claim surging through him. He would leave her bruised and aching. There would be nothing of her that was not his. 

_As if she could not say the same for you._ The voice in his head was soft, easily chased away, easily killed. 

He had his head buried in her neck when he came inside her, the instinctive needs of his body overtaking his mind. The groan that came from him was surely like nothing she would have heard before, and his own frame convulsed above her in a mirror of her own. His breath bathed her neck as lay against, as they lay in that mixture of blood and seed and need.

 

**[Sansa]**

She held him tightly, legs wrapping further around him simply to stay afloat. He pumped in and out, in and out, driving himself deeper, taking more. The bed moved as they did, in time with his increasingly erratic motions. Petyr’s thrusts were unforgiving, the sheets tangling underneath them as her body twisted under his.

That dulled pain began anew, but the girl savoured the ache, coasting atop the sensation, relishing instead his utter loss of control. She listened to his harsh breath, his skin sliding on hers, and she was intoxicated on the remnants of her release, dizzy with the thought of him finding his own.

His groan sent a shock through her system. It reverberated down from her neck, a percussion resonating from his bare chest to hers. And then that warmth; this time the fluid did not spill on her thighs or stomach, but inside of her, filling her as the man stilled.

For a moment, as she attempted to right her breathing, she stared at the ceiling, feeling him soften inside of her. The girl’s legs relaxed, falling to either side of him while her arm remained against his back, keeping him in place. Fingers glided along his spine, pads taking in his vertebrae, learning each one, committing them to memory.

She was sore, bruised and exhausted. She was covered in the man, devoured. And Sansa could not deny the truth; she enjoyed every second of it. Never in her life had she felt so free.

Her head turned to him, and soft, swollen lips searched for his mouth. The kiss was open, languid, such a contrast to the force with which he’d finished. A few seconds and she pulled back, an easy sated smile forming below tired eyes. “Did I do well?”  

Outside of the room the party carried on, but the girl couldn’t bring herself to worry.

 

**[Petyr]**

His mouth dragged along her, tasting the salt of her skin. There was something primal in the gesture, a finishing move as it were. 

When her mouth came to take his it was clear that she felt the dead weight of relaxation as clearly as he did. He opened himself to her without even meeting her eyes, seeking the heat and the connection on instinct. 

Not that they weren’t already connected. His cock, softening inside her, was evidence of that. Reality, with its awful claws, took him then as they settled into the after. He should have been more careful, he never should have spilled himself inside her. She was so pure, she wouldn’t know how to track such things. He did not wish the bliss of this evening to be tainted by any later consequences. 

Her question pushed it aside somewhat, though the innocent way in which he spoke dug at him. _You ruined her._ That was what he wanted, that was what she wanted, after all, but there was a responsibility there, an added weight. A true cad would leave her after this, and if this was a girl with no importance to him perhaps he would. But he couldn’t, she was his, he would take her with him. He needed to protect her and teach her. She was his responsibility from this point forward.

“You were amazing.” There was no lie in his voice, no mockery, nothing to indicate he did not mean exactly what he said.  

Petyr pulled out of her gently, looking down at the remnants of the act. He could tell his cock was slick with her blood even in the low light of the room. Carefully he lifted himself off of her, granting her a kiss as he did so, and moved to the basin in the corner. His shirt trailed behind him, his limbs were loose, and there was a persevere sense of pride in his movements. 

 

**[Sansa]**

Sansa couldn’t help but beam at his praise; it did not sound like a lie. The noises he’d made, the urgent slide against her, did not seem easy to feign. She’d done well, then, and she smiled into his skin as her breath slowed to a calmer pace.  

But she had come to learn that any contentment she might experience in her life would be limited to rare, often fleeting moments, and this was no exception. The man pulled away, a slight wince on her part when he left her core. A brief kiss and he was gone, gone to face the reality, the gravity, of their affair.  

His back turned, she watched him move toward the basin, taking him in. There hadn’t been opportunity, in the haste of their previous actions, to see him properly. The man was still very much a mystery to her, despite the pieces she’d slowly put together. Sansa was eager to know more, to learn more.  

She sat up, surveying her lower half. The sheets were stained under her, his seed tinged with her blood. Her thighs were cold, the dampness exposed to the air now that he no longer covered her. She stood, cloaking herself in a sheet to combat the chill she felt, following his path. The girl watched him clean himself, ridding his body of the evidence, fingers carefully removing any lingering stain. He must be vigilant; he’ll be taking another woman to bed later in the evening, after all.  

It was that thought that nettled, dug into her chest. That selfish part of her, the one that lived in the back of her mind, did not want him to leave, to go back to the reception and wrap his arm around his wife, to have her aunt in the same way he’d just had her. 

One hand reached to brush his arm while the other held the cloth against her. “You’ll be missed by now, surely?” She could picture her aunt, scurrying around the house, searching and searching for her husband, desperate to find the man currently wiping his niece’s blood off himself.

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched her from the mirror as she observed her body, as she wrapped herself in silk to join his side. He was careful not to turn and see her full-on, for he knew that the pull of her would be too great and that he would abandon all sense and reason to join her in that bed. Lying with her, having her, seemed a far sweeter proposition than anything beyond the door and so, to keep himself in check, he only focused on the refection. 

_Like I’m fleeing Sodom._ The blasphemous idea brought a smile to his lips. _Though I would run back to it in a heartbeat._

When she reached his side he found he had to look at her, for it was impossible to have her near, to smell her, and not wish to observe her. Her hand was light on him, searching for a connection. 

“I will,” he said, repeating the words in his mind like a mantra. He looked down at the cloth he had used to wipe off her blood, ran his fingers over it as if he could capture the memory. “It is for the best.” 

“And how do you feel?” he asked as he moved to dress himself, hoping the barrier of clothing would move him back to reality. “Do you ache?” _Do you feel altered?_

 

**[Sansa]**

She watched the man set the cloth aside, picking up the discarded clothing scattered about the room. It almost seemed surreal now that it was done and over, the feverish haste with which they’d acted; the haphazard of clothing and stains on the bed were the proof of the claim. And of course, the soreness between her legs, a reminder of him each time she took a step.

And he asked her if she ached. The truth was betrayed in blue eyes flitting to the ground, away from him. The question she asked then embarrassed her as she said it; a naive and foolish girl inquiring about things she ought to already know. “Does it always hurt?” Although it didn’t matter, she supposed; she would gladly take the pain for the ecstasy it brought with it.

Sansa knew she should dress as well, but for a moment she found herself unable to expose her bare form to him again. The sated, smiling girl was fast deserting her, replaced with someone more vulnerable. It was absurd, as she clung to the cloth, unwilling to let him see the drying mess on her. Minutes ago she was writhing against him as he pressed inside of her, and now she felt that shyness creep in.

But she couldn’t remain a girl forever, and maybe something in her had changed, perhaps she was a different animal now, with him. She took a breath, letting the sheet drop from her form, letting him see her entirely, stains and all. Her hand reached for the cloth, but her eyes were on Petyr, refusing to shy away. 

 

**[Petyr]**

He wondered if she noticed how slowly he was moving to dress himself, how he very much did not wish to leave her side. Perhaps this was not the best time for a moment such as this, though the perverse part of him had wanted her to be the first woman he had after his marriage. Perhaps it would have been best to wait for a time when he could linger, when he could hold her and ease her into this new world.

Soon they would have that. Soon they would have all the time they wanted to luxuriate in the feel of each other. For now he must dress and present himself down below, don his false smiles and take his new wife to bed.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Sansa’s question seemed nervous, and yet again he was reminded of what an innocent she was. How very young, how inexperienced. This knowledge was a pang, this knowledge was pleasure, and he turned to look at her before responding.

She bared herself to him then. He found he could not turn from her, found he could do nothing more than cross the room and take in her form, his fingers reaching out to skim her side, remembering.

She was so warm. So young, so tainted, so much _his_. He touched her as if she was a holy object, his fingers hoping to retain something of her.

“No, not always.” Petyr licked his lips and found himself drinking in her form. “Though it might ache a bit the next time.”

 

**[Sansa]**

She closed her eyes as he grazed her skin, body still sensitive, still alight. She wanted to bring him back to the bed, to share that space away from the world until the party was over, until Harry was gone. But she knew she must be practical; if they remained they would be found, and Sansa did not need much of an imagination to visualise how Lysa Arryn would react to the sight of them.

She brought her hand to his chest as he answered her, wanting a mutual connection. “Next time…” It occurred to the girl then, for the first time, that there would be a next time. It was an obvious insinuation, an assumption that this was simply a beginning. And of course it was; had she thought any different? Perhaps she needed the reinforcement in that moment, as he prepared to leave.

But she couldn’t help herself; fueled in part by jealousy, she wanted him again. “When?” She asked the question softly, toying with the buttons on his shirt as he continued to touch her, the sheet forgotten on the floor.

She wondered if she could make him stay, make him ignore the guests, his wife, for a little while longer. If she pressed herself against him, would he push her away? If she moaned into his mouth or guided his hand between her legs would he refuse her?

Instead, reason won out, and the girl settled for a chaste kiss, barely a peck to the edge of his mouth. It was oddly close enough to something a niece might truly give her uncle. Almost, if not for the state of her, or the darkness in his eyes as he stared at the girl in a way an uncle never ought to.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her hand coiled against his chest in a way that he should have shied from. Having her this close to the scar should have sent his heart racing, but any nerves he felt about that were overshadowed by simply having her close. His fingers kept up their trail of her skin, his senses remained filled with her, and he knew it would be torture to tear himself from her side.

Outside the party still raged and his wife surely searched for him. Outside was the game that used to excite him, that used to be all he lived for. It still did, though the thrill of it was deadened slightly by the idea of not being able to share it with her.

Petyr could hear the possessive undertone to her voice. Her fingers were at his shirt now, pulling, and it took all his willpower not to allow her to lead him back to bed. He was the elder, he was supposed to have sense, he was supposed to not lead her into danger, though more and more he found it difficult to keep his wits about him. Especially after that act.

Sansa’s lips on his were almost a mockery of familial love. The perverse nature of it struck him; he dug his fingers into her hip in an effort to stay upright.

“Soon.” It was a promise but not an exact one, though he hoped she read into it what he intended. As soon as he was able he would come, as soon as he would not be missed her would have her. He could not do without her for long. Surely the strangled nature of his voice told her all this?

He kissed her back, but this one was rough. There was nothing proper there.

It seemed fitting to leave her with that.

Back into the light he went, mask firmly in place, to drink and drink and drink until he could bring himself to do his duty.

 

**[Sansa]**

She allowed herself a few moments, standing alone in the room, reflecting on the events of the evening. Her side was still warm from his fingertips, her mouth tasted of the last, hard kiss, her body still carried his scent, his seed.

She cleaned herself off, slowly, meticulously, before she donned the dress again. Looking to the mirror she fixed her hair, powdered her face anew. The girl looked at herself and she saw no severe contrast from before. Even if she felt changed, even if she felt like something other than herself, it wasn’t something so easily noticed. Save her, he alone would see the difference.

With that, she left the room, walking back into the glow of the reception.


	6. Chapter 6

**[Sansa]**

She skipped breakfast, and then lunch, claiming an irritated stomach from too much wine. In truth, she didn’t want to see them, the newlyweds. Sansa was certain she wouldn’t be missed anyway; her aunt was surely pleased they had the estate practically to themselves, to bask in the afterglow of their wedding night.

It was odd then, when one of the house staff sought her out as she sat on an old wooden swing attached to a tree. Her presence was requested for dinner, and the maid was adamant about her attendance. She was told to wear something nice, something _decent_ ; direct orders from the lady of the house.

And so she pulled on a clean blouse and skirt, letting her hair down, wild along her back, unsure of the cause for her aunt’s directions.

Perhaps she should have been expecting it, however, when she made her way into the dining room and found not only Lysa and her new husband, but Harry at the table. The boy stood, a picture of charm and chivalry, pulling the chair out for her. Sansa, despite her confusion, remained perfectly polite, taking the offered seat at his side. Next to his plate was a small, velvet-lined box.

“Harry.” She chose her words carefully, not missing the slight smirk on her aunt’s face. Sansa did not look at her uncle. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

 

**[Petyr]**

He hadn’t caught her eyes for the remainder of the evening–in truth, he hardly wanted to. He knew he would not be able to fully hide the heat in his gaze, and even if Lysa did not notice there would still be the pull underneath, setting his feet on the course to Sansa.

The rest of the night was a haze best not reflected upon.

In the dawn he found himself still unable to shake his wife. The smile that was fixated on his face practically ached, and every fiber of his being wanted her. But she kept her distance and he was left to reflect why. Was it shame? Did she feel he actually needed this time alone? Or was it merely calculation on her part?

He passed the day in this fog, his mind still clouded from last night, and thus he was not truly prepared for what Lysa had in store for dinner.

She had not told him, had merely flitted about with some damn knowing smile on her face, and he had perhaps been foolish enough not to suss out her meaning until it was far too late. He found himself seated for dinner with that damned boy across from him and there was little he could do.

Lysa’s eyes were mischievous and despite his better judgement he wondered if she knew. She couldn’t, but this was clearly the start of something he was very much not going to like.

Sansa had to go.

When she arrived for dinner herself the shock was evident on her face, the sadness and sickness. It was nothing he had ever hoped to see across her features and he could do nothing for it. He stared at her and she did not stare back, merely spoke to her aunt with that hollow look on her face.

He curled his fingers in his lap, hoping to conceal the rising emotion.

 

**[Sansa]**

She used to find boys like Harry handsome. She used to dream of a beautiful wedding, a stunning dress worn as her family and friends watched her kiss her new husband. What a foolish girl she’d been. But fate was cruel in that way; she was getting exactly what she'd wanted, only now she didn’t want it.

Harry put on his best, winning smile, fully assured in his words, his movements. “I had planned on waiting, but darling Lysa came to me last night and told me how eager you were, how desperately you wished to start a family.”

She wondered if the conversation had happened before or after he had taken the brunette into the pantry.

“And so…” The box on the table was collected, opened, and the offending trinket pulled from it. It was a ring, of course it was, gold with a sparkling white gem in the centre. He took her hand, and she did nothing to stop him. Perhaps her aunt and Harry would mistake the shock on her face for the swooning sort; the pale skin that graced her features and speech that failed her might be attributed to glee.

The ring was heavy, so very heavy, on her finger as he slipped it on, and the boy hadn’t even asked her. Hand still in his, he leaned, pressing his mouth against hers. Their joined fingers fell to her thigh, and the girl had half a mind to run. But no, _no_. She must be smart about this. The girl returned the kiss, just long enough to placate him, and pulled back. She put on a shy smile, and for the moment, she conceded.

When Lysa leaned in to speak with Harry, seemingly delighted by his proposal, the girl stole a glance to Petyr. She couldn’t disguise the look of hurt on her face, and she didn’t want to. How could he hide this from her? _How could he?_

Her eyes left his, and Harry’s hand was a sickening press on her leg. “And when will we be married?” The question might have seemed to be for her intended, but it was Lysa she looked to.

 

**[Petyr]**

If his grip on his trousers were any tighter he was sure he would rip the fabric. He tasted ash. The sight before him was sickening enough, with Sansa’s lost and eventually defeated face sure to haunt him, but there was the additional knowledge that he had been bested by Lysa. _Lysa_. He hadn’t known, had certainly not anticipated her to act so fast. His free hand slid along the dull side of his knife as he turned his attention to his wife. Did she know? Was this all part of her plan to get the girl away from him?

If so, she greatly underestimated what he would do for Sansa.

Her awful gaze moved on to Harry, and Petyr found himself meeting Sansa’s eyes for the first time that evening. For the first time since he had her. The contrast between the girl he left last night and the girl seated before him could not be more striking. She looked lost, unsure, and above all hurt. She looked to him with accusations in her gaze. He tried to assure her through his face of the reality of the situation, _I didn’t know_ , but their connection was brief. She turned herself to face Lysa, that awful question on her lips.

“As soon as you should wish!” Was the response Sansa got, and he could not keep his tongue for much longer.

“I must say, this is a surprise,” His eyes were on Sansa, imploring her to understanding. _I will get you out of this._

 

**[Sansa]**

What a stupid girl she’d been, thinking Petyr wanted anything more than what he’d taken the night before. Those promises, those whispered plans, were all part of the same game he played to trap Lysa. Drain the woman’s pockets, ruin his niece; all in a day’s work for the man. He would take and take and take and leave wealthy. And leave her with the brute. How clever; a clean break.

Lysa was all too eager for the match, and it seemed Harry was as well. At her encouragement regarding a date the boy’s eyes met her own, a hungry stare that made her squirm.

His palm pressed further onto her leg as he spoke. “As soon as we can. Do you think you can be patient for a month? My family will want to prepare some spectacular event for it. And of course we must have an engagement party. Would you like that, my dove?” She could smell the wine on his breath, she could see Lysa’s satisfied grin.

Sansa didn’t want to play the game, but her hand was forced. What would Lysa do if she refused? “Of course a month would be fine.” The girl smiled, a mask on the brink of faltering. “But not a day longer; I couldn’t stand the wait.” She added it as a reinforcement, in case her expression was not convincing enough.

And then the man spoke of a surprise. She was afraid to turn to Petyr, lest her face betray the tears that threatened to well in her eyes. The sickness she’d feigned earlier was suddenly all too real, and she rose to stand, watching the boy’s hand fall from her lap. “My apologies, but I’m afraid my stomach is quite upset again. All this excitement…would you please excuse me?”

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched her, sickness coiling inside as he saw her about to crack. Petyr felt as if he was being stabbed and there was nothing he could do about it without risking his own facade. And so he watched, helpless, as the girl faltered, as she stood and the boy’s hand slipped away, as she ran from the room.

He looked at his two companions then, at their odd disinterest in Sansa, and felt a righteous sort of fury.

This man–this _boy_ –had to audacity to touch her, her, but when she needed help he returned to his own wine, a mumble of the emotions of women on his lips. And Lysa laughed, horrid, and Petyr wanted nothing more than to poison them both, cleanly.

He did not, of course. He merely stood and said some words about wanting to check on Sansa and make a call, and then followed his lover’s path.

He did not know, exactly, where he would find her, but he was not at all surprised that it was the study–after all, it must have been a place where she had felt some power. The lights were dim and she stood with her back to him, her frame suddenly seeming so small.

She was so much above them. She would crush them all, calmly, and he would watch her. It was a fantasy that he knew would come true, that he knew must. The girl had skills beyond their knowledge, skills that only he could bring out. It would be a shame were she to go uneducated.

“Sansa,” he spoke, after he latched the door behind them. His voice was soft and he approached her slowly. “You must know I had no part in this.” _This awful thing._

 

**[Sansa]**

Sansa knew it was him before he had a chance to close the door. It wasn’t just his familiar tread or the quiet manner in which he entered; no one else would have sought her out. Harry already had what he wanted, and Lysa simply didn’t care enough. And who else would have searched for her in the study? Who else knew her well enough?

She wondered, feeling numb in the shadows of the room, how he’d managed to pry himself away from his wife. The thought was crushed, pressed down into her mind when she next considered her own predicament. How charismatic, how convincing the man could be; it wouldn’t have been hard to lie his way to find her.

She didn’t turn when he broke the silence, instead choosing to stare down to the desk, to the place she’d been perched not so long ago when he dipped his tongue between her legs. Her hands became fists at her sides. She had no reason to believe him, his claim of ignorance, even if so much of her wanted to. And how close the tears were, that sadness of an enamored girl whose knight had been a jester all along.

“Why are you here, Mr. Baelish?” She rotated then, fighting the urge to cry the only way she could. “Would you like to have me once more before you turn me over to Harry? Here on the desk, perhaps?” With that, she slid onto it as he drew near, palms planted on either side of the wooden surface. It was the closest thing to cruel she could muster.

But that cruelness was exhausting, and the girl wanted nothing more than to reverse time, to fall back into his touch. “I was a fool, an idiot, to cling to such a hope. To think you might truly take me away.”

 

**[Petyr]**

The sickness did not ebb at the sight of her. Her bitterness, her coldness, her formality caused it to twist into something else–a sense of outrage. Shouldn’t it be clear how much he cared for her? How much he risked for her? And she had the audacity to think he would ever plan with Lysa, that he would wish to see her with that boy, that he would not take her with him. Petyr’s hands coiled and uncoiled at his sides and he took a few nervous steps this way and that, trying to come to terms with what she set before him. He wanted to explode; he couldn’t explode. The servants would hear, Sansa would give him a bitter smile, and that would be the end of that.

Instead he closed the distance somewhat, his throat a long line as he stared at the ceiling. Anything to keep from looking at her, from seeing the acquisition in her eyes. “Is that really what you think?” His voice was cracked and hollow. “That I meant nothing by this?”

 _Why should she?_ He looked at her then, at the hurt in her large blue eyes, and was suddenly hit by how very young she was and the unwelcoming home that she had. Of course she would be defensive, would be quick to paint him with the same brush as her aunt. It was not right and still it angered him, but it made sense.

Petyr shoved his hands in his pockets and closed the distance completely, his eyes always on the floor.

“Last night,” he started when he reached her, his eyes chancing to meet hers. “Did you really think that was nothing. That I could desire not taking you with me?” It was as close to sentimental as he was going to get, at least tonight.

 

**[Sansa]**

He was angry. She’d never witnessed that sort of ire from him, that indignant tone. Sansa looked again to the floor in response, her mind messy from the week’s events. It didn’t entirely make sense, she supposed. If he had planned it, he shouldn’t be so close to fury. And Lysa had always been transparent about how quickly she wanted to wash her hands of the girl…

When he ventured near to her, the closeness was oddly welcome, even in her confusion. “I don’t know.” The most truthful answer she could produce to his question.

The girl slid off the desk, eyes not leaving his, and maybe she was even more foolish than she’d previously given herself credit for. Perhaps this marriage was a final chance to get away from the man, to find some sort of normalcy with the wealthy boy. Was it possible that the fates had noticed her pain and were offering some alternative, something safe?

If so, she would have time to regret it later; for now she knew whose hands she meant to place her fate in. She knew which greenish eyes she wanted to devour her. Sansa was too far gone, too tangled to break free from him. If he was to be her undoing someday, she might even welcome it.

“Will you help me, then?” Small fingers crept to the man’s sides, underneath his elbows and around. She enclosed him with her arms, tentatively, testing his reaction as to not spark any further anger. Her cheek tilted to press into his collar, breathing him in.

The ring on her finger clicked along his spine as the girl begged for comfort, for assurance. “I don’t want him.” _I don’t want to be his._

 

**[Petyr]**

Her emotions shifted, resolve cracking to reveal the girl underneath. Her voice shook with her fear, and his anger twisted into something else, the direction of it sharpened to a fine point and deflected away from her. _They would pay._

Sansa coiled herself about him tentatively, and to be able to touch her, to consume her after so many hours apart was simply refreshing. Until, that is, he felt the weight on her finger against his back and the memory of the boy touching her flooded his mind. He wrapped his arms around her and gripped her tight, one hand reaching up to cup her head, every move possessive.

“Of course I will,” he responded, resting the side of his face to hers, breathing her in. He could not let this happen; she would certainly be lost to him for good. The bonds of her marriage would not break as easily as his–he simply needed to get her out.

Pulled away, Petyr’s fingers curled under her chin to draw her gaze to his. He hoped assurance shown in his eyes; he was certain it did. He felt resolved, determined and focused after weeks of biding his time. His heart pounded in his chest and he had to conceal the strange sense of excitement that rushed through him.

“I would never let him have my girl.” There. As simple as that.

“We have a month.” A deadline, then. His fingers curled in the silk of her skirt and his mouth found hers, sealing a contract.

The kiss lingered and lingered and lingered, and the idea of dinner moved further and further from his mind.

 

**[Sansa]**

With his hold, with his face against hers, she had no cause to worry. His touch, his eyes, told her more than his words ever could. Doubt fell away as he returned her embrace, feeling that comfort she’d craved. The girl sighed, and it was one of relief, of that weight lessening off her shoulders, now that another had promised to bear it with her.

 _My girl,_ he said, and Sansa smiled into his neck. There was no denying it; she was his entirely. The heat rose to her cheeks, and would she ever grow comfortable with his compliments, with his encouragements? Each one served to fortify, to build her up into something greater than herself.

Together they would rid her of the boy; she was certain of it now.

But there would be time to plan later; his mouth was on hers then, and the wedding, the oaf of a fiance, left her mind completely, replaced with something far more appetising. And what a terrible thought it was, that she should ever need to break away from him, to leave his arms.

Lucky for her that the sentiment seemed shared, a mutual desperation for the other. Her skirt cinched in his hold, and the girl moaned into his mouth, the kiss deepening as her tongue slid against his.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her breath heavy on his lips. “We shouldn’t…they’ll be wondering where you are.” Even as she spoke the girl failed to heed her own warning, pressing her chest to his, one hand lifting to his temple to keep him close. No one ever went into the study, anyway.

 

**[Petyr]**

She was smiling against him, her whole being relaxing now under his arms. It felt good, impossibly good, to have her like this again, though the anger and sickness did not entirely melt away. It crouched down into some corner, ready to pounce again once that boy returned to his sight. But for now it was gone; he simply could not sustain that feeling with her in his arms, with her scent filling his nose, with her red lips against his.

Sansa spoke words of caution and he knew he should obey. It would be the proper thing to do, after all, but more than that it would be the smart thing to do. So much was riding on a smooth couple of weeks, on them making it out of here with their names intact, and the best thing to do would be to not feast upon her just yet.

He could, however, have just a little taste.

It would be impossible to not want her, not when she was like this, pulling him forward and moaning against him in that wicked way she had developed. He was already half-hard and would have to linger here anyway, until he calmed down. Why not pass that time with something sweet?

“You’re right, we shouldn’t.” As he spoke he pressed her back against the desk, so that she was trapped between the wood and him. He pulled back to smile, his grin large and serpentine, and his fingers toyed with the silk of her skirt.

“We can be quick and silent, can’t we?” Petyr’s lips then went to her neck, pressing against the pulse there, devouring her beating heart.

Let them know; to hell with them. Let them see what it was like to truly _please_ a woman.

 

**[Sansa]**

The wood dug into her lower back, and she’d never been placed in a more pleasant trap. His body moulded against her; it was as if she’d been tailored to fit into him perfectly, effortlessly. And perhaps she had been; this need was for him alone, he brought it out of her.

And that smile, the tilt of a man who shared the same sentiment she did; there was no stopping, no leaving the study without seeing to their own satisfaction. The danger only seemed to make the act more tempting.

“ _Quickly_.” An agreement. Was it the time constraint, the worry that forced the words out in a breathy sigh, or was it simply the need to be with him? Sansa didn’t know; she didn’t care. The girl was lightheaded with the newness of it all; of every touch, of the building sensation she felt when he came near. She did not yet have a handle on her reactions, on self control.

She guided his hand under her skirt, wasting no time. Fingers intertwined with his, guiding her underwear down and down, until she was able to step out of them. She was already wanting, ready for him, and the thought might have shamed her if she wasn’t preoccupied so with his mouth on her neck, warm lips grazing the soft skin.

The study was all shadows and quiet as she pulled back to look at him. She was certain her own desire was reflected in his eyes, something dark and raw, something she could not subdue.

Lysa Arryn might be wondering where he was, she might be searching for him, but the girl was too lost to let those thoughts be spoken. The only word that fell from her mouth was his name.

 

**[Petyr]**

There would have been a time, he was sure of it, when Sansa would have balked at such an act as this. Her face would have reddened and all manner of objections would have risen from her lips. That such a time now seemed an implausibility could be taken as a sign that she was firmly on his path.

He had no time to reflect on the implications of that just yet. His hand was being guided upward until it found its goal and slid down; his body was moving ever forward, until it had her perched on the desk. Her slim legs wrapped about him, his hand covered her mound, and he could do nothing more than groan into the side of her neck.

“I think I can manage that.” He had no desire to make anything with her quick, wanted nothing more than to linger against her body, but if his choice was between that and not having her at all he would take what he was given.

His fingers dipped into her crease; she was already dripping wet. Slowly he slicked them, moving back and forth as his other hand worked to free himself from his trousers. How curious, that they went from such restrained beings to this, bodies heaving with the pain of being kept apart.

He could not help but tease, not when he had her like this. Despite the time limit the temptation was too great. Petyr had seen how she reacted to his words, the blush of innocence that still lingered about her–it was simply too sweet to resist.

“What do you think Harry would say if he found you like this?” His words reflected his smile, sardonic, as his hand found his cock. He was aching for touch, and though his fingers were a poor substitute they managed.

“Wanton little thing.” His words were a growl, but there was some awe there.

 

**[Sansa]**

Back onto the desk she was placed, and the man wasted no time. Sansa didn’t either, spreading her thighs to allow his movements, to urge on his touch.

He mentioned Harry, and the girl’s eyes widened, taken aback. The threat was a real one, despite the man’s clear aim of inciting. They could easily be caught; Sansa moaning against her lover, aching to be filled. All it would take to be discovered was the turn of a door handle, sparked by mere curiosity or a noise emanating from the room.

If only his fingers hadn’t found her, if only he wasn’t slick with her already, she might have had the will to protest. Instead, an awful thought surfaced, and as much as she tried to stifle it, she was fuelled by his own wicked words.

Dare she return the jape? She wanted to see his reaction, she wanted to see pride mixed with the lust in his eyes. “I think he’d be wondering what sort of villain defiles his niece.” _And what sort of girl enjoys it?_ A sentiment left unspoken, but her body arching for him, her senses focused entirely on his touch, his taste, would tell him what her voice did not.

The man pressed on, naming her wanton, and she couldn’t deny the truth in it. As if to reinforce his words, her hand reached between them, joining his, her fingers light against his hardness. Sansa’s free arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him close. And he was nearly as trapped as she was; her legs and elbow secure in their hold, desperate as the man caged her in return. Her pelvis shifted, unsure in the newness of the position, waiting for his guidance. Her nose brushed against his, eyes closing as she prepared to keep quiet.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her words were sly, exactly the kind of response he craved. When Petyr pulled back he looked down at her with teeth slightly bared, the sound of his heartbeat almost deafening. Sansa had that sharp look about her that he was increasingly accustomed to seeing in her eyes. It was a look that he hoped he would never grow tired of. It did such _things_ to him.

He had to choke back his groan as she took him in hand, guiding him to exactly where she needed him. _Vixen. Harlot_. A thousands wicked words died on his tongue, words that were intended with nothing but affection. The woman who earned those words was not the same as the girl he had met–she was a woman transformed, a woman truly, and he intended to craft everything for her.

Her mother was nothing short of a memory these days, as wrapped in her as he was. The flesh, the blood, the deceit–nothing in it could compare to the courtly love he had embraced so many years ago. This had a reality he could taste.

For now, he embraced something far, far different. He pushed forward then, taking control, splitting her lips on the head of his cock. His mouth was swift, covering hers, swallowing any cries. He was going slowly, taking her with small cants of his hips, filling her bit by bit. His whole being was frantic but he did not wish to frighten, did not wish to hurt her in this way.

His hands kept her seated on the desk, firmly in place. Fully sheathed, he moved back with a roll of his hips, letting her enjoy the stretch, the ache. “And what sort of girl enjoys her defilement?” His words were a rasp, and just saying them caused a small shudder to rock his frame.

 

**[Sansa]**

Not so long ago in a dark grove the man had made a promise. Sated against a tree, he had promised her _better_ with a knowing smirk on his face. And now, Petyr again proved true to his word, showing her better, giving her better. Who else had given her the truth? Certainly not her aunt, and anyone else who might have was dead and gone.

But that was not the cause for her desperation, for her desire for the man. Whatever it was they shared ran deeper, more potent than something as simple, or as complicated, as the truth. She might have felt it as early as their first meeting, a spark, a recognition. Perhaps that was the cause of her initial skepticism, her rude behaviour. Regardless, Petyr was the one being _rude_ now, the teasing japes that caused her face to warm.

And how it vexed her, and how it excited her.

When he pressed himself into her it was carefully done, the thoughtful easing of an experienced lover taking on a novice. And she was thankful for it; the soreness from the previous night returned as he filled her, not so uncomfortable as before. The ache dispersed as he seated himself completely, allowing her to become used to the feel of him, his mouth on hers preventing the moan she gave from spilling into the empty room.

With only one article of clothing removed, her underwear forgotten on the floor, the act seemed somehow more lewd, more indecent. Her pelvis rocked, confined by the hitched skirt and his own hips, seeking relief just above where they were joined.

She barely recognised his question, so absorbed with his hands on her, the feel of him stretching her. But the man expected an answer, she was sure of it, and so she gave him one. “This girl.” _Your girl._ Her other arm secured itself around his neck, and she met his chest with hers, flush against him. Her eyes closed again, attempting to remain in control.

 

**[Petyr]**

With those words he was lost.

Any restraint he may have felt fell swiftly away. He pushed into her with vigor, his strokes long and hard, sure to leave her sore. Her words bound her to him, truly, and he would never be accused of failing to stake this claim.

Sansa’s movements were responsive. More than that, she wanted her own release, which he was more than happy to give her. As he fucked her he reached between them, down to the juncture between her legs, so that he could tease her into ecstasy.

“ _My girl._ ” The claim was whispered against the ivory of her neck, more for his benefit than hers. Petyr worked her over, quickly, his own thrusts growing increasingly erratic. This was not a time to linger, not a time for softness. This was a time to embrace the vulgarity of all of this.

And what vulgarity. The two of them mostly clothed, rutting like animals while his wife and her intended dined in the next room. They would join them, shortly enough, and hide how truly undone they were.

“Wicked little girl.” The hitch in his voice betrayed him; despite the control in his words she could see what she did to him. His free hand pressed and pressed into the small of her back and he gritted his teeth, unsure he could last, wanting nothing more than for her to clench around him first.

 

**[Sansa]**

It changed, then, with her encouragement. Consideration was forced aside, replaced with a mutual escalation. She was lost in him, in the endearment spoken into her neck, in the vigorous presses that seemed to reinforce it. “Yours.” An agreement, another contract, another truth she could no longer deny.

And perhaps she had a hold on him as well, perhaps he was hers. The glittering ring on her finger meant nothing, nothing at all, and neither did his.

Petyr’s fingers came between them, toying with her where she was searching for friction. And the combined sensation was almost too much for her; she muffled the sounds she made into his neck, leaving open kissing between the groans.

The man was coming apart, driven into desperation from their connection. She heard it in his voice, she felt it in the frantic bucking into her, in his arm enveloping her for leverage to thrust deeper, faster. In response her own pulsing built, and the girl mirrored his urgency, her arms holding her nearer to him.

And it was the tone in which he called her _wicked_ that caused her to gasp, legs tightening around him as her form tensed, her body arching up to draw him further into her as she was guided to her peak.

Being the cause of his loss of control was intoxicating, more even than the waves of pleasure that followed. She kept her hold, remembering the man was not yet sated, rocking her hips to aid him in joining her high. He was close, so close, and she was eager to see him to his end, _to feel him._

 

**[Petyr]**

He held her tightly in his grasp as she came, the weight pressing against him nothing short of exquisite. Sansa thrashed only a slight bit, her body longing for less restraints, but it was mostly her expression that held the change. He had not gotten a good look at it last night, wrapped as they were in the dark, and now his hungry eyes could not leave her expression. She seemed to grow lovelier and lovelier as the release crossed her, her features ever shifting, her mouth always agape and soundless.

She held him tight, her anchor to this world. She did not break the contact of their bodies, opening herself to him, allowing him to take his own pleasure.

Petyr couldn’t hold back any longer. The feel of, the look of her, was beyond intoxicating. She held him close with ruined hands, whispers that were not words filling his ear, and he could do nothing more than take and take and take.

When his own peak hit his fingers gripped her so tightly he was afraid her dress would tear. He felt overheated, his blood, his nerves, his everything right at the surface.

He spilled himself inside her without a thought, with nothing more on his mind than the instinct to claim.

The release took him and when it passed his limbs were like liquid. He found himself leaning against her a bit too hard, still sheathed inside, his mouth hot on her neck.

 

**[Sansa]**

The warmth spread inside of her as he found his release, finishing the dance. It was still strange, his tensing arms, the unruly rhythm that preceded it. She held him tight, fascinated by the man who was usually so reserved, so collected, as he came undone against her. Would she ever grow used to it, to the desperation, to the feel of him?

She thought not. She _hoped_ not.

He leaned into her, his breath a welcome wash along the slope of her neck. She pulled one arm away from him, moving to splay a palm behind her on the desk, keeping them upright, attempting to catch her breath. Her legs stayed wrapped around him, unwilling to let them fall away just yet.

She didn’t want to move, she didn’t want the man to pry himself from her. The sooner he did, she knew, the sooner they’d have to go back. It was so much easier without the outside world to pester them. She would gladly lock herself away with him for days, pretending she had no worries, no fiance, no horrible aunt.

But there never seemed to be time. The grove, the study, the wedding…they were quick, frantic affairs. It was certainly fitting, paired with the constant fear of being caught, with the indecency of it all, but the girl couldn’t help but long for time.

“A moment more.” _Please,_ the words begged as her lips grazed his cheek. _Let me forget for a second longer. Let me have you for a second longer._

 

**[Petyr]**

Her words were sentimental, they came from a place of honesty he had never thought to hear again. His reflexes took over, momentarily, and he found himself wondering what it was she truly wanted.

But no, there was no artifice about her now. He saw the potential she had to develop, knew he would soon find himself polishing her deceit, but for the moment she was as honest as one could be, the contrast to the Sansa at the dinner table startling clear. She held him close and he could feel the beat of her heart, slowing in relaxation.

Petyr wrapped her tightly in his arms and held her, one hand snaking up to stroke her hair.

The weight on her finger suddenly seemed far too heavy as she pressed it against his back. It seemed like something infected that he needed to amputate, lest the disease spread and destroyed her. He tried to fixate away from that and found himself kissing her, slowly, his mouth open. The gentle kisses of one truly sated.

He did not wish to leave, but the clock on the wall was ticking, ticking, and he felt the anxious ache of time slipping away. With a groan he slid out of her and righted himself, watching as she did the same with graceful hands. They had been careful and nothing seemed out of place

“Shall I take you to the toast?” A necessary break, but not a welcome one. Still, he hoped he understood what he felt in his bones. They would do this together.


	7. Chapter 7

**[Sansa]**

She was having trouble standing still.

Perched on a box for height, the girl was playing the part of a statue, impatiently waiting for the woman at the hem of her dress to finish her work. She’d been there for hours now, watching the dress fitter’s nimble hands stitch and sew, meticulous in her art.

It was a white gown, of course, a modest, long dress with embroidered lace. Harry had spared no expense for her, and the garment was proof of it; she couldn’t fathom how much he’d spent having it made. Fortunately for her, he was so preoccupied with planning the event he barely had any time to visit his future bride.

The woman was finishing up as she heard someone enter the main room. It was her uncle; she could see him in the mirror’s reflection, and the dress maker mumbled something about stopping by again in the morning with more fabric.

It had been days since he had her on the study’s desk, since those lingering, open kisses that told a tale of sated affection. She barely remembered the rest of dinner that night, the lingering smell of him on her, a light scent of sweat and her own arousal as she tried to appear excited for her engagement. Harry and her aunt had been too delighted to notice the fleeting glances shared between Petyr and herself, and she was thankful they were both so easily distracted.

She met his stare in the mirror, itching for freedom. “What do you think?” Sansa shooed the woman away, watching her pack up her equipment and make her way out of the house. “Will Harry like it?” They had not been granted time to have a proper conversation in so long, she didn’t realise how much she missed him until that moment. She smiled at him, and to anyone else it might have been the smile of a giddy bride. Not so; the man would know the smile belonged to him alone.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr leaned slightly against the door, taken aback by an ungodly mix of emotions. Seeing Sansa clothed in white did something to him–anger was the first to rise, anger at the fact that he must give her away. She was being adorned to be given to another man and that sickened him. It was not in any way similar to how he planned, with her clothed in lush fabrics and dripping with jewels in order to trap a fly, for in that case she would still be, without question _his._ Now there was the possibility that he was losing her, that she truly was being given to that boy. He knew it was remote, knew that he would get her out of this, but being hit with the reality of what might be was too much.

And then there were other feelings. A base desire to have her, right then and there, rip that pretty dress and take her in front of the dressmaker. A more removed admiration for her loveliness. A sense of shared sadness. All of these were powerful, but all of these were overshadowed by the sickness deep inside.

“He would be a fool not to.” His voice was even but he knew she would hear his disdain.

The dressmaker gathered her things and made her way out the door, and Petyr made his way to Sansa.

He kept his gaze trained on the mirror until he reached her side, at which point he reached up to graze fingers along the small of her back, the fabric soft as her skin. “A bit innocent, don’t you think?” A raised brow accompanied those words, which were an attempt to lightened to ache that he consumed his chest for days.

 

**[Sansa]**

“He’s a fool anyway.” And it wasn’t _Harry’s_ opinion that concerned her. He would never claim that level of intimacy.

With the dress fitter gone she spoke with returned candour, letting the courtesies fall away thread by thread. She slipped off the shoes she’d been forced into all day, her sigh of relief audible as the heels were gently kicked aside. The dress felt heavy and unfamiliar against her skin, constricting her, seeming to foreshadow the upcoming binding of her to another. It was a lovely garment, lovely and revolting. She wanted it gone.

When Sansa looked to the mirror, to the man, she could see it there, that tinge of _green_ in his grey eyes, that jealousy. She knew it well; she could see it in herself each time her aunt would take his arm, coerce him to bed. It burrowed deep, and it never really left, not even when she was alone, and she wondered if it was the same for him.

Perhaps it was; the man approached her, and Sansa couldn’t help but relax. It was a relief, finally, after long days of being prodded, being courted, being fawned over by the boy and the endless line of those in his employ. For days she’d longed for a moment alone, a moment of peace. This was just as satisfying. His fingers moved to her back, and how she’d missed his touch. A piece of her had been missing, lost for half a week, recovered again now that he was near.

“And what would you suggest?” Her hands smoothed the dress down, distracting herself from the urge to touch him, instead watching him in the reflection. “A lower neckline? A higher hem? I’m sure the fitter would be happy to oblige…” She turned her neck, then, angling her face in his direction until she could see him, her spine straightening against his touch. An eyebrow raised.

 

**[Petyr]**

His fingers danced along the small pearl buttons that dotted down her back, his mind attempting to focus on the here and now. It did not entirely work, for he kept receiving flashes of the boy’s hand where his was, ripping the dress aside without care in order to receive a prize that was not his to have. It was a worrisome idea, one that burrowed deep into his heart, one that installed in him the press of _time._

Sansa looked at him and in her gaze he could see the sharpness of hurt, present and aching despite the balm of his appearance. Her words almost seemed designed to wound, pointed as they were. He could not fault her for that. His own marriage, unhappy as it was, had been planned out so well in advance that he knew by heart every beat it would take. And it had, perhaps more importantly, been his choice. And he had known he would always have a way out. Where was this girl’s assurance? She would merely have to take him at his word, and he was vague out of necessity.

“Perhaps it would be better if we were to deliver him the bride he expects?” He shifted his eyes to meet her gaze in the mirror once more, taking in the full of her. “Innocence makes a good cover, you must know.”

His hand then moved to take hers, guiding her away from the mirror, back to his level.

She stood before him now, neck arched in a lovely line. She was almost as tall as he was and her slimness only seemed to increase the effect–in so many ways she was almost overwhelming. Petyr took a gamble, leaning in to brush his lips to hers in a half-kiss.

“This will be a good test,” he spoke when they parted for an inch. “Charm him. Have him. Take him. And then leave with me.” His fingers coiled about her waist, tight.

 

**[Sansa]**

She knew well enough what the boy expected; some blushing thing, demure and quiet. A pet, a prize, a cook, a maid. A toy. A vessel for pleasure, for childrearing. The list likely ended there. She would be expected to take his arm at parties, smile at his friends, feign ignorance when he bedded other women.

She looked at Petyr and saw something entirely different; with him she was no maid, no pet. In the man she saw potential. For more, for better. It was a risk, a gamble, and she knew it; she’d known it from the kiss in the dark not long ago. Still, that tether was there, and she daren’t try to break from whatever it was that bound her to him.

The girl went willingly when he pulled her near, responding in kind to the press of his lips to hers. Days without him, and the slightest touch stirred her, enjoying the contact, the warmth of his close form. Did he miss it the same way she did?

Petyr spoke of the boy again, and her brows furrowed. “A test?” The words were soft, barely heard as she gave pause. Perhaps she didn’t think the lessons would begin so soon. There would be no honeymoon period for them, then. The path was set, an affair, a ruse, an escape.

But she could not help but doubt her abilities. Harry, as much of an oaf as he was, would have some semblance of awareness; failure on her part could ruin them both. “What if I can’t? Charm him?” Questions, always questions, always asking.

Before he could respond, her lips met his again, another brief peck. And another, and another, slow and teasing, her eyes closing as she receded and advanced again. His hands kept her close, but fleeing was the last thing on her mind.

 

**[Petyr]**

After not having so much as touched her in days, having her in his arms with her mouth pressed to his was almost too much; Petyr held himself back lest he fall into a destructive state. It would be almost nothing for him to have her here now, but he could hear the life of the estate and it muted his heart.

Muted, but did not destroy. He met her kisses, tangled his fingers in the pristine, untouched cloth of her dress, and hoped that she could feel the power underneath. He was reigning himself in, as best he could, and she would have to see the sense of it.

It was a justification, of course. A truly cautious man would not be doing this, would have pushed her away and created a wide gulf between them. He could not help himself, however–being in her presence and not tasting her was a knife to the heart, and any balm he could give to the wound was taken.

Their conversation did not stop on account of the kiss. He could not help but laugh, slightly at her words, at what she simply didn’t _know._ He brought one hand up to cup the side of her face, pulling her away just enough so that he could admire her, thumb reaching out to trace a reddened lip.

“Sansa,” the word was a whisper, the caution overtaking him bit by bit. “I don’t see you having any trouble in that. Do you not see?” He glanced at the mirror, at her long and enticing form, hoping that her gaze would follow his. His hand curled then, down to the lovely line of her neck, the pads of his fingers caressing the ivory.

“You will have men in your thrall. It is in your power to do so, even without my help.” His hand continued its downward path until his fingers curled about a clothed breast, cupping it gently, his mind picturing the flesh underneath. The edges of caution were becoming blurred.

“With my help, of course.”

 

**[Sansa]**

He was practicing control, returning her kisses but not pressing on, feeling her but not letting his hands wander any further. It was more of a torture than the abstinence, being so near without the benefit of greater contact. But he had the right of it; they were in the open, exposed to anyone who might dare to walk into the room. There was a danger there, and it only seemed to elevate each time they were together.

She followed his stare to the mirror, to the pair reflected in it. And what she saw might not have been the same as what Petyr viewed, but it resonated with her nonetheless. The sight of them, uncle and niece, lovers, crooks; a dozen labels could be given to them. Whatever they were, however, it seemed to be a shared thing. And that pleased Sansa more than she could say.

And perhaps that sentiment was what spurred her on despite the room they occupied. “There is only one man I want.” _Only one I want in my thrall._ The words were quiet as she turned away from the reflection of the man, and faced the real thing. Sansa moved into his touch, to his fingers sliding along her neck, and it was almost an unconscious motion. She was already so used to him, so responsive to his fingers grazing her.

“With your help.” An agreement, although there was no plan she knew of yet. Not really.

And when he reached her chest the girl’s lips could not help but to part along with her sharp inhalation. One hand reached to cover his, unwilling to let him release his hold. She cupped his face then, in the same manner he had done to her moments before. Bold from the building lust, from his proximity, she pressed his mouth to his, no longer something chaste, daring him to refuse her.

 

**[Petyr]**

He felt his face heat at her words and he knew the hunger that overtook him in such moments had darkened his eyes. He should feel jealousy, he should feel a pang at the idea of giving her up to other men, but hearing her say those words framed it all in a different light. He would watch her coil these men of society around her finger, see her drain them once she pierced them with her soft words. He would watch her suck their life away and then she would return to him with her perfection undiminished. It was an idea that excited him far more than he would wish to say.

His fingers entwined with hers at her breast, pressing down just as his mouth returned her more fevered kiss.

Still, despite the satisfaction of the flesh, Petyr could not stop himself from lingering on that fantasy. He had wanted nothing more than to rip it all down and cloak himself in the spoils, and he had done just that over the past few years, carving out footholds for himself and slowly but surely making his way to the top. A successful route but a lonely one. With this girl by his side, however, he could want for nothing more. Not only would he continually feel this heat, this pride at watching her work, he had the perfect tool with which to destroy–a girl raised on the inside, well-poised to hollow out this class.

He pulled her close. _To hell with the others._

“Harry will be a good start,” he whispered against her lips, already picturing that boy broken and destroyed. “Provided you have no qualms about using him.” A nip at her lips punctuated those words.

 

**[Sansa]**

Did she have qualms about ruining Harry? In the back of her mind she might be carrying brief, lingering doubts, tugging at the place where her conscience lived. Of course he didn’t deserve it; he’d committed no crime that she was aware of, he would likely never do her physical harm. She could easily have been forced into a worse marriage, a more brutal match, by her darling aunt.

But she looked to the man and the chance for freedom, for a new life, for something good, was far too great to give up. “No, I don’t.” Not an entire truth, but perhaps with time, and his help, it would be.

He teased her lips, his pressing hold on her breast only urging on the heat between her legs. The dress was uncomfortable for an entirely different reason now; it served as a barrier between them, between his skin on hers, his palm against a hardening nipple. Just how eager she was showed in her movements as it became clear he wasn’t going to deny her the contact she desired. Another kiss, open and drawn out as she gave a small moan into his mouth. Her fingers grazed the line of his jaw, gentle, coercing him nearer.

“Petyr.” His name was almost a question as she pulled back for no more than a breath. She wanted nothing more than to be removed from the confines of her garment, to be carried to her room, to feel him nestle between her thighs and groan into her neck as he found her centre. Sansa wondered, as rationality was swept aside, if she could convince him to oblige her.

As those desperate thoughts drifted through her mind, as her lips met his again, a glass shattered across the room.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her confirmation that she would go along with this plan sung in his ears, sent a jolt straight to his heart. He had expected, of course, that she would continue to be his willing pupil, for if he knew anything at all it was that she was _his_ , but hearing it spoken in such breathy tones was an entirely different thing. When he kissed her once more it was with a kind of giddy vigor, his body leaning against hers without any regard for caution.

A foolish thing. The shatter of the glass broke him as well, pulled his attention from her, pushed him into acting.

He only caught a glimpse of her as she fled from the room, raven-haired and slim as could be, dressed in the plain garb Lysa granted the servants. The shards of glass from the bauble that had been in her hand lay scattered across the floor. Whatever it was she was carrying from room to room had been red and now here it lay, like drops of blood.

Petyr gripped Sansa tighter still, as if something threatened to rip her from his hands. Already his mind was racing with possibilities, with ways to counteract. The girl would most likely tell someone–gossip to servants was like a drug–but perhaps her destruction of the glass would cause her lips to tighten just a bit. He could not be sure of that, of course. They must act, soon, sooner than he expected.

“Go to your room and wait for me,” he said, already moving from her, steps steady and deliberate. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he followed the path of the girl, stalking, ready to strike.

 

**[Sansa]**

The servant girl rushed out of sight, leaving a mess of glass in her wake, and the air was pulled from the room, from her lungs. Blue eyes widened, looking to the man, and her entire form stalled. His hold tightened in response around her, and it became the only thing keeping her grounded as the sickening reality sunk in. But that hold did not last. He left, only a simple instruction given to her and he was off, tracing the steps the intruder had made. She watched him until he was out of sight, and for a moment she considered running out the door and away and away, far from all she knew.

To her room she went instead, following his orders, hands shaking as her feet carried her to the familiar space. Against a wall she leaned, chest heaving, attempting to catch her breath behind the safety of her own door. She would not leave him; she was already bound to the man, to whatever end.

He’d given no further direction, and she wondered if she ought to be anticipating something. Should she be packing some personal belongings in preparation for flight? Or would Lysa ship her off to Harry’s to be married earlier than planned? Would she be sent from the home to live on the streets, no longer suitable for a man such as her intended?

No. Petyr would not let it happen. _He couldn’t._

_But what if he did?_ The nettling voice countered, and the girl shook the question away. He would take care of it, of her.

Sansa calmed herself, closing her eyes and finding a slower rhythm for her breathing. When she was finally able to focus her hands moved to her dress, removing it and setting it gently on the bed. In her slip, no longer confined in the bridal attire, she felt more at ease, more prepared for what was to come.

The door handle turned, and Sansa rushed to him, the fear she’d stifled returning. “What happened? What did you do?” The questions flooded out of her mouth without her control. One hand gripped his arm, seeking proof that he was really there, that he hadn’t abandoned her. “What will we do?”

 

**[Petyr]**

The girl was easy enough to find, despite the caution he knew she thought she acted with. Down beneath the house, in the narrow pathways that stood in such contrast the to splendor above, he caught her. Fingers digging into her arm, her body pressed back against the wall, he wasn’t exactly using force so much as measured persecution. His expression did not change, no blatant anger noticeable in his eyes, but there was something there that froze her all the same, left her standing meekly in his grasp. A sense of detachment, a coldness, a hollowness. Petyr cared nothing for her, and she clearly realized that as soon as he trapped her.

“You do need this position, don’t you?” He asked her, his voice nothing but false kindness. As he spoke his hand reached into his pocket, pulling from it a bill which he then slid into her apron. More money than the girl made in a week, more false kindness. Her breath noticeably hitched.

“Such a shame about that bowl. I do hope your mistress doesn’t find out. Perhaps she would take the loss better if she thought I was the cause of it?” A mummer, barely a word, was all he got in agreement. He pressed into her body once more for emphasis, once more to let her know her place, then left her there, her face red and her hands shaking.

He couldn’t count on that to buy her silence forever. On his way back to society he began to map it out in his head, the next move on the board.

The first step was to tell leave a note for his wife that he needed to talk to her quite urgently about the employment of a certain girl, a girl that left him quite ill-at-ease.  
The second was to find Sansa and draw her in.

When he entered her room she attached herself to him, anxious and afraid, and he was more than happy to give into her grasps, to hold her close and stroke her hair. As she spoke he moved her to the bed, so that she could sit down. He figured it was the best position for this.

“She will not trouble us.” He spoke that with assurance, for he knew it was true. He would spin a tale to Lysa about the servant girl’s advances and that would be the end of that; already she had spoken jealous words to him about the girls in her employ. That, in conjunction with the bowl, would be more than enough to settle things, but Petyr didn’t want to just settle things. A leak had appeared and he knew it was time to leave ship before it sunk.

“I don’t think you will be needing this so soon.” He fingered her dress at his side, the silk that he had hoped to have her in. Perhaps there would be time for that, in vastly different circumstances.

And then, the most important question: “Do you trust me, Sansa?”

 

**[Sansa]**

His presence was a comfort, a consolation, and why had running even crossed her mind? It was panic, raw and sudden, that allowed the fear to seep into her, to warp her thoughts. She would have to do better, learn to control herself better, if she meant to stay with the man.

She didn’t realise just how obvious her shaking limbs, her wild eyes were until he moved her to the bed. The slip was thin around her frame, and she knew that part of the shaking could be attributed to the cool air around her exposed skin. Despite their prior intimacy she crossed her arms, shielding herself from the man who had taken care of her, of them.

Her eyes traveled with his to the dress, to the one she’d desperately wanted removed not so long ago. She’d wanted to replace it with his skin, his touch, and now she sat wading in the consequences of her folly. She had been careless, pressing him on in plain sight, pleading for more.

Petyr implied it was finished, and she had half a mind to ask him how he’d managed it. Something told her she would find out soon enough, however. And so he had saved her, more than once now. In return, she’d done little to prove her own worth to him, and the thought brought a shameful heat to her cheeks.

_Do you trust me?_ He must have noticed that hesitance, that worry in her, and of course he had. He would have caught wind of it before she knew herself, the keen observer that he was. That worry was gone now, having fallen away the second he turned the handle, the second she felt for his arm.

He was justified in his question; the risk of their affair was just as heavy for him as it was for her. He had a great deal to lose, likely just as much as she did. She owed him her trust, and more than that, she wanted him to know he had it, more than anyone else ever would.

“Entirely.” She uncrossed her limbs, reaching for his hand and giving it a slight tug. Her eyes followed as she placed it on her side, covering it with her own hand, intertwining their fingers against the thin fabric. Sansa’s gaze found his own eyes then, and there was a sureness there that she had not fully conveyed before. “You won’t doubt it again.”

 

**[Petyr]**

She curled up into herself, almost defensively, as she sat beside him. It was a movement that he could not help but notice, a movement he would never forget. He understood, of course, that base need to protect oneself, but seeing that that instinct was alive and well in her was a subtle blow. Perhaps it would melt away in time, once she joined him in this act, once she saw what he was willing to do for her.

Sansa’s words did much to calm him. There was assurance there as she pressed his hand. Perhaps she did not even know what her body language had told him mere moments ago. He decided to embrace what she said, push aside any lingering doubts. It would not do to not be fully invested in her.

“Good.” His mouth felt dry. He wanted to kiss her, but for once it was not overwhelming. The thought of a plan was surging through him, that glorious anxiety was building, and his excitement was focused on the future.

“I think we should begin to orchestrate our flight from this place. It will not be sudden, we need to build first. So that we can leave with no suspicion and with all the wealth we can gather.” It will help us, somewhat. Until we want more.

Bidding her to wait there he slipped from the room, returning on silent steps and with a small velvet pouch in hand. He presented it to her with all the glee of a gentleman presenting his lady a ring.

“The means of our escape.” He said as he waited for her to fish inside, to draw out the vial of death. “I have already ensured that the will is unbreakable. This is all ours.”

 

**[Sansa]**

The girl pulled open the bag, an uneasy twisting in her stomach, unsure of what might be important enough to necessitate him bringing it to her in place of a simple explanation. Reaching in, she slowly extracted a vial, small and full of a liquid indiscernible from water. There wasn’t much in the container, barely a few drops’ worth sliding around. She clutched the pouch tightly in her free hand as the other held their means of escape.

It looked innocuous, but the girl knew better. Petyr wouldn’t be guarding something so precious, so nefarious, in a velvet wrap, likely having been hidden somewhere no one would search. He wouldn’t be showing her, appraising her reaction, if it was harmless. His stare then, watching her assess the bottle, told her a great deal more then the glass did.

She could guess, and maybe her lips mouthed the word as her fingers turned the vial. _Poison_. And what sort of harm would it do; paralyse the drinker? Or would it kill? She could guess that as well, just as she knew exactly who the gift was for. The saliva was thick in her mouth when she swallowed, looking up to the man standing before her.

Of course. He was leaving, _they_ were leaving. Petyr wouldn’t be one to leave any loose threads in the garments he wove, and what else was Lysa but a long, knotted piece of twine? She thought of asking him a question, _is there any other way or do we have to kill her_ , but she knew the answer already. She could nearly hear him say it; _no Sansa, no other way._

There was resolve on her face, writ plainly with the sadness there. She felt old and worn, but there was something strong underneath as well, some growing part of her that desired to leave the weakness behind. She watched him still, as she put the vial back in its pouch, setting it to the side of her. “Will it be quick?” Perhaps she didn’t want to know the answer, but still she asked.

The man seemed so far away, even as close as he was. She reached for him, an arm extended, always wanting, always asking. And another question: “When?”

 

**[Petyr]**

In front of her, looming over her, Petyr could clearly read every shadow that crossed her face, every fleeting moment that accompanied a realization. She was unclear at first and then knew all too well what the vial contained (she was a clever girl after all). A sort of horror overtook her then, mixed with sadness. It was not exactly a welcome reaction, though it was understandable. For as much as Petyr knew this was the right course to take, the _only_ course to take, she was still quite inexperienced in such matters. Sullied or not she would still retain a stain from this act, and as necessary as he felt that was it was still something she was liable to hesitate over. Especially when the target was family, those forced bonds making you feel something stronger than you should.

But it was in the moments after this that her true feelings emerged, and it was in those moments that Petyr knew he had _the one_. She still trembled slightly, she still reached out to him for reassurance (a not unwelcome gesture) but there was a determination now that clouded her eyes, chasing away any of the doubts. She saw, she knew, she understood her role.

In her questions were the remnants of before, of the Sansa who wanted her escape to be as painless as possible. Perhaps she would never lose that girl, but at the moment it mattered little. At the moment she was gripping him, asking him, entangled in him.

“No, it will not be quick,” he said bluntly. He allowed her to pull him back to her side, wrapped one arm around her nearly bare shoulders. “You don’t want it quick, it raises too much suspicion. A few drops in her drink and she will be ill within several hours. The illness will last for two, three days, and then that will be the end of it. There will be no trace, nothing more to say than that it was a fever.”

With his other hand he took hers and brought it to his mouth for a kiss, lingering over the feel of her skin. Something about the knowledge of what was to come, mixed with the sweetness that sat beside him, excited him beyond belief. “Soon. The maid will be gone by tomorrow afternoon. If anyone questions, we have her to take the fall.” A dismissed maid would, undoubtedly, desire to have her revenge in the form of a bitter parting gift. What better cover?

“We’ll stay here for some time after, in mourning–and surely you cannot get married in that state. Then, when the time is right, I take you away for the good of your health.”

He could resist himself no longer. He leaned in and covered her mouth, wishing to taste that fresh sin.

 

**[Sansa]**

She nodded at his explanation, taking in his words with all the attention of an excellent student. And that’s what she was, really, at least for the moment, until she knew enough to truly be useful, to be something of an equal. “A fever…” And perhaps that could be what she will tell herself, if the truth becomes too difficult to bear. _My aunt took ill, and she’d always been so unlucky in her health. There was nothing we could have done._ Sansa could hear herself saying the words already.

Fleeing, escaping, clinging to the man seemed so much easier when the potential victims hung at zero. The number would be one soon, a fatality, a murder. And then there was the maid, the girl whose life might be ruined through their machinations. Sansa was aware of the consequences, but took them in a detached sort of rationality. It was the same severing of emotions she’d employed so often in her recent past.

His lips went to her hand as the plan unfolded, and the girl’s fear left her. She wondered if she would still feel the same resolve when her aunt wasted away, ill and dying from the poison they fed her. And it was a _they_ ; she would share the blame, the guilt, even if it was not her own hand that slipped the vial’s contents into her meal, her drink.

She welcomed his mouth, his hold, just as she had welcomed it in the main hall. It served to sooth, to reassure, to tear the apprehension from her heart. The girl pulled back an inch, studying the hunger in his eyes. “And what of Harry?” She planted a small kiss to his mouth as she watched him. This was the man’s element, the schemes and the deceit he planned so well were not a chore to him; he delighted in them. He was elevated, eyes alight with the web he was creating, each facet in the plot seamless. And did he have contingencies set in place? She could guess.

Sansa could not help but be infected by his excitement, by the energy that emanated from him. She knew then without a doubt that this was the man she watched to attach herself to; one who carried such a passion, such ambition. He was clever, and she wanted to learn from him, stay near to him, watch as they twisted the world until it worked for them.

Her body lifted until she could move atop him, a knee planting on either side of his thighs. Looking down from her new perch, she traced her fingers along his jaw, appreciating the contact. “What if Harry isn’t willing to postpone the wedding?” Her mouth found his jaw, leaving a trail of soft kisses down to his neck.

Her slip hitched _most indecently_ , but she was certain the man would forgive her for it.


	8. Chapter 8

**[Petyr]**

He leaned back as she rose up before him, her skin flushed and her eyes taking on the hue of a dark sea. There was a need for physicality bleeding out of her every movement, her lean body covering his, unable to rest. Her questions were not the questions of the girl he had met when first he arrived at this house–a brief expanse of time that now seemed like an eon–but, rather, the questions of a girl who’s mind, who’s being, had been awakened.

 _Because of you._ The idea formed in his heart and then spread out on tendrils, heating his skin. He held her in place with fingers digging into the silk of her slip but did not force her there. Mostly, he sat back in awe.

Petyr leaned forward to take her mouth, biting at her lower lip playfully, savoring the taste of it as his hands worked up the hem of her slip. It was indecent, it was wicked and awful and nothing else seemed more _them._

“Harry is nothing.” Never had he said anything truer than that. The boy was nothing, a mindless being propped up by an old name and undeserved money, and when he was gone there would be nothing to mourn. “I would not worry about him. He will follow the rules of society, he will postpone.” Already he could see himself snuffing the life out of that boy, already he could see them grinding him underfoot. It excited him almost as much as having Sansa perched atop him, and he found himself arching up to give her some idea.

“I’ll keep this vial until the time is right.” His fingers put it aside on the nightstand for safe-keeping. “And I will pour this one. But I expect you to _watch._ ” He didn’t need to tell her how much that idea inflamed him; surely she could feel it.

His hand slipped under her slip, to touch her bare skin at the waist. It seemed even softer than silk to him, at this moment, and he wanted nothing more than to have it pressed against him. Petyr leaned back further, until they were practically prone on the bed, nothing that was not indecent remaining in the room.

“Can you do that for me?” His breath was tight, and surely she knew how to play.

 

**[Sansa]**

Harry would follow the rules, yes. He would be a gentleman, he would wait for her to finish her mourning, to set aside the devastating death of her aunt, to recover enough to be the perfect, blissful bride.

The man before her, in an enigmatic contrast, followed no rules, save perhaps the ones he made himself. Maybe he had the right of it; maybe there were no rules, not really. He was pulling her into that world, the one filled with endless opportunities, for gain and for pleasure. The rules would bend, would break entirely, for them.

She desperately wanted it, she desperately wanted him.

His mouth teased, and she gave it back to him as he felt underneath her garment. Sansa could feel his arousal; he’d wanted her to feel it, she was certain. She listened to his words, to his question, and the heat building in her only grew. When he spoke, it was clear there was an implication; he would do the deed in this game of deceit, but she would have her part to play in the future. One day, she would be the one whose hand tilted the vial.

He’d asked a question, and the girl met his eyes. Was it the burning that made her so sure, the connection to the man underneath her? Her answer was a slow nod. She could watch, she could learn. She would make him proud.

Petyr was leaning, taking her with him down and down onto the bed, but she was finding the slip too warm, _too much_ ; it had to go. Fingers found the end of it, dragging it up across her stomach, her ribs, and over her head, baring herself to the man. That shyness was still there, her face flushing as her mind waged a battle between vulnerability and simple lust.  
Her eyes, seeking a distraction from his hungry stare, drifted to the vial now sitting atop the nightstand. “Have you done it before?” Was he a killer already? A well-seasoned professional? Several months or years down the line would she be able to boast the same?

A palm pressed to his chest, then, giving him a tiny push, until his back found the mattress. Her hands reached for the end of his shirt, prying buttons apart starting at the navel. The girl’s pelvis rocked gently against him, her underwear damp and threatening to ruin his slacks with her need.

 

**[Petyr]**

She had bared herself to him so many times before, and yet each time he found himself similarly enchanted. He admired her stripped form, fingers caressing her sides, lingering in the hollow of a waist, in the gap between a rib as she stretched. Never had he thought to have such a creature in his grasp, never would he grow tired of this admiration.

No longer did he raise objection when she moved to strip him, pushing him back to the bed with a bold hand. He kept the reality of what had happened far from her, guarded that knowledge as if it was liable to make everything break, but no longer did he force her hands away. He had touched her, flesh to flesh, and since that moment he wanted nothing else.

But at the moment he was more focused on her question. It brought a smile to Petyr’s face, it caused the cogs of his mind to turn. Did the girl want the truth of it? Could he tell her the truth this early on? His fingers danced along a leg, up and up, before dipping themselves between hers, curling in the damp fabric there. His gaze didn’t leave the juncture of her legs as he allowed his fingers to get soaked by her, until he _pulled_ and brought her down on top of him using the undergarment as leverage.

“There is no evidence that I have.” That seemed a fitting answer, given the circumstances. She would know, she should know, that there was more to it than that but that one must be careful, always careful, not to give too much away.

_Not even to you. Not now._

The idea that there might come a time when Sansa would be in a position to know excited him and frightened him in equal measure. It was a path he had walked down alone for so many years, they were sins and advantages that had been his alone. To have another person here, now, in that confidence was a terrifying, exhilarating thing indeed.

But he was not yet ready for that. For now, the answer was a guarded one.

He moved on then, his actions letting her know that she had his answer. His hand slid between silk and thigh and pushed the garment down slightly, so that her thighs remained trapped by it. There was something so deliciously obscene about the position and he no longer took care to hide it, rubbing his clothed cock against her stomach, reaching down to free himself as his other hand slid across her bottom, dipping between her legs.

 

**[Sansa]**

He allowed her to expose his chest, the scar clear in the light of the room. There wasn’t time to focus on it, and she wouldn’t have anyway; she’d witnessed the way he guarded it as if the wound was still fresh and hurting.

One day she would find the courage to ask. But not today; she was preoccupied with his wandering fingers, wetting themselves, teasing her. When he pulled her near she could not help the hitched breath as her skin finally met his. She locked her shyness away, saving it for later, as their bodies warmed against each other. How could she feel shy when they were the same, both bare and open and wanting?

Maybe not entirely open, however. At her question he spoke of evidence, and his answer was evidence enough for her. She wondered how many lives he’d stolen, she wondered how many more he would take. She wondered, and she wasn’t afraid. Perhaps she should have been.

But he was feeling her then, reaching for his slacks to free himself as he toyed between her legs, and again there was no time for reflection; there was simply his touch, his flesh, underneath her. She closed her eyes, mouth open as her hips moved, enjoying his attentions.

After a moment, Sansa pulled away from him, away from his touch. Was it the position that allowed her boldness, or was she simply becoming more confident, aided by his presence? Either way, she shifted above him, slipping the damp fabric down her legs before straddling him anew. Not allowing his hands to find her again, she instead intercepted them with her own, intertwining his fingers with hers.

Above his head their joined digits moved, hardened nipples grazing the skin covering his ribs as the girl pinned him to the bed. She’d learned it from him, the memory of the first time he took her still fresh and vivid in her mind.

And she began to move, undulating against him, his hardness sliding between her legs, much too slowly. A mirror of the man, she asked him the same question he’d asked her not so very long ago, as her lips brushed his, barely a connection. “Do you like this?” Her hair spilled around them, and the girl covered him entirely.

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched her with a sort of bemused enchantment, taking in all her movements with a detached eye while at the same time enjoying the sensation. She perched above him, pinning him to the bed with a boldness that would have been out of the question weeks ago, questioned him with a tone that begged for his approval. He did not mind being restrained under such circumstances, for she was still very much his to teach.

And the feeling of her grinding against his cock was making it very, very difficult to mount any objection. Petyr looked down between them to where they were connected, his flesh swollen and dripping with need, and pictured the sweet satisfaction that came with filling her. It made him heady. It made him want to play.

He raised his hips to meet her, dragged so that he was coated in his own need. The sensation made him hiss, his fingers digging into her hands, the feel and smell of her hair against his skin almost too much. He wondered if he would come without even slipping inside her, and what she would think of _that._

“That is my answer.” A wry response, but surely she knew it was true. He was not very strong but he was stronger than Sansa; surely if he wished he could break her hold. But that would not be happening, the experience of watching her play and learn all too enticing.

He couldn’t help himself from teasing her, however. He canted his hips up gently, rubbing himself against her, watching her to see how she would react. “What would your aunt think of you now, hmm?”

 

**[Sansa]**

The girl thought she might be able to tease him, the way he so often did to her. Watching him under her, his body arching up, responding to her motions, and she knew exactly why he took so much pleasure in making her squirm. She felt that brief moment of control, of power atop him, and Sansa leaned forward to meet his mouth, unable to stop the moan that resonated from deep within her.

But it was brief, she had not yet learned the art of delaying her pleasure, of culling that building sensation. When the man rocked back against her, she wanted nothing more than the feeling of him, sinking into her, filling her.

“She wouldn’t be very pleased with my choice of confrère.” _Her choice_ ; as if she’d had one. There had been no choice, no will of her own in this. The binding tied, locked them together before she could consent, before she’d known exactly who or what he was. His shadow as they lowered her mother into the ground, her eyes on him for the first time and she’d been ruined before he even touched her.

She’d let him ruin her, over and over again.

Sansa pulled one of her hands from above him, keeping his own fingers locked with hers as she guided them between them, finding the hardness there. She did not look away from him, blue eyes foggy with desire meeting his hungry stare as she angled her pelvis to meet him. The girl felt the tip of him, then, at her entrance, and she was more than ready.

Slowly, with the uncertainty of one who did not exactly know the way, she lowered herself onto him, knees spreading along the sheet to accommodate. Into the open space she sighed, the relief of joining with him washing over her as they came flush together. For a moment, she stilled, looking down to the man, and how different it felt, how new, _how wicked._

Their hands still locked, she brought them to her waist, begging the man to show her just how to move.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her eyes were shining, her body infused with this new taste of control. She was nipping at it as one would a practicality rich, new dish, enjoying every moment of it with more than a hint of caution. It was, oddly, just as exciting for him to watch her try and control this new power as it surely was for her to feel it. There was a shadow over her face that had not been there when they had met, a darkness that only he could see. It touched a nerve deep inside him, causing him to curl against her, to try and engulf her.

However he remained pinned to the bed, allowing her to have her game. He let her guide their hands to where she wanted them, exhaling a small curse of relief when he slid inside. She was warm and tight and already so familiar that he had begun to feel an ache just from being apart.

 _And what does that say about your control?_ , taunted a calm voice inside his head, one that he silenced with a roll of his hips. Sansa was still looking to him for guidance, and he would grant it eagerly.

“No, I don’t think so.” He answered her, moving her hips this way and that, showing her how to ride him in order to get the best sensation. He was fully sheathed, hitting her in a way different from previous encounters, and the newness of it was beyond sweet.

“But such a wanton thing–do you think she could blame me?” Petyr raised himself up, pressing into her as deep as he could for emphasis, before slowly moving her back. They were rocking now, their bodied in sync. “Begging to be ruined.” His lips curled into a smile, enjoying all to much the flush that took her skin.

 

**[Sansa]**

Her thighs were growing sore, but the ache between her legs was too tempting to resist the chase; it wouldn’t allow for any pause in her movements.

And when he spoke, when he bucked deeper into her, the girl moaned aloud, unable to stop the sound from resonating in the quiet room. She wondered how thin the walls were, how easily they might be heard. Petyr had already silenced one unlucky maid today, she doubted they could afford another incident.

Her hand splayed on his chest in an attempt to steady them, her palm resting on that long-healed wound. They ebbed and met anew in tandem, their rhythm growing more frantic with each breath they took.

He spoke of begging, and was he wrong? The girl had pleaded, and would do it again. She was nearly begging atop him even then, as his strong grip steered them, as he rocked against the place above her core, pushing her nearer to the edge. There was no word other than wanton that could describe her, uncaring of the desperate motions, her open mouth, her arching back. She was exposed to him entirely, baring herself to her aunt’s lover, conspiring with a decidedly bad man. It terrified her, it excited her.

She could see how much he enjoyed toying with her, teasing her with his words. His eyes told her as much; there was spark in them, intermingled with that familiar lust. Beyond the embarrassment, beyond her need, it was that spark that tethered her to him.

Her legs spread wider against the sheets as she sunk further onto him, as far as she could, changing the pace of their movements, hoping to catch him off guard. She was close, her body tensing as her thrusts became erratic and selfish.

Her free hand clutched his, urging him on at her hips. “Petyr, please. _Please.” Oh yes_ , the girl could beg.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her back arched, her movements not inhibited in the least, her hair a glossy wave behind her. Petyr found himself somewhat memorized, his body moving of its own free will as he took in the sight before him, fully appreciated this girl giving herself to him. Something about the plan had sparked something deep inside her, had torn down the last barrier of respectability, and it was truly a treat to see that happen and know that he was the catalyst of it. She rode him like a whore, like she was in heat, and he was entrapped.

The pleas that left her mouth almost seemed to carry a whiff of perfume about them, heavy they were in his senses. He wanted nothing more than to please her, to bring her into this world in the best way he knew how, to show her things and to be there as she was reformed into a new woman. She was clutching at him, her face scrunched up as she chased her pleasure, and he wanted nothing more than to give it to her.

With force he pulled away and brought his fingers to the juncture between her legs. His touch was light but persistent, and seemingly just what she needed–she moaned so loudly he was forced to pull his other hand away and cover her mouth, muffling the sounds of her pleasure.

Something about the sight of her, like this, caused the pressure inside him to build; the clenching of her muscles aided it along to its release. His threw his head back, neck elongated, as he felt his release come, only to be blindsided by damn logic.

He had come inside her far, far too often; it was a risk he almost never took, but he had been unable to handle himself. Perhaps some of her youth, her inexperience, had rubbed off on him, but that was not sustainable. Caution should be the name of the game and it was caution that caused him, with a painful groan, to slip from her sweet core and spill himself against his skin. He pushed her aside, hoping that the waves she was chasing would keep her from asking questions.

 

**[Sansa]**

From the angle, the deeper thrusts, her growing familiarity with being filled, she was understanding just when and how to move when she neared the edge. And she was understanding him as well; the way his hips quickened, the tiny changes in his face, his tightening grip on her. Her pelvis undulated, listening to the man’s catching breath, his guiding hands, for further direction.

At her plea, his fingers found her, and he barely needed to touch her; a few clever strokes and the girl found herself needing to be silenced. He covered her mouth, saving them both from discovery, muffling the sounds she had not learned quite yet to cull. And he was close; his head hit the mattress, his body tensing, the lean muscles in his arms tightening. The girl could not help but to stare at him; the look of a man so careful, so cunning, losing himself under her. It was intoxicating, more than any wine or liquor, more than anything she’d known.

But something happened, and he pulled away, pushed away, removing himself from her core. She was half on her side, then, watching Petyr reach his end. One palm planted on the sheet to keep herself up, and as the man groaned and released, her own pleasure was replaced with a wave of confusion.

He’d pushed her away.

Blue traveled from the man’s face and down, down to where he’d spilled. Brows furrowed, and her free arm moved to cover her chest, almost unconsciously. Her breath was coming at a slower pace, but she still paused for a moment, a silent observer to the remnants of his peak.

Her words were quiet when she spoke, and not simply for the fear of being heard. “Did I-“ How she wished they weren’t atop the blankets; her hand curled into the fabric below her, and she wanted to cover herself, shield herself from whatever had changed. “Did I do something wrong?” She ran through the last several minutes in her mind, attempting to discern the cause for his rejection, coming up entirely empty. And quieter still: “Petyr?”

 

**[Petyr]**

He took a breath to collect himself, his vision full of stars, the pounding of his chest drowning out every other sound. He could see the glistening seed dotting himself, spilled and useless against his lower stomach. His cock was still half-hard, still itching to fill her as he had before, his corporal body angry at his thoughts for knowing too damn much.

As the din in his ears subsided, as his body cooled, he became acutely aware of Sansa and the way in which she had changed. She still laying near him but her arm was up, a barrier that he had hoped to never see again. Her words were soft and sad things and they sent a chill through him, as though the tip of a knife was being dragged across his chest before being lodged into his ribs.

Her tone was a plea, the hurt unmistakable, and Petyr felt the lowest of the low. How curious, that he could talk of murder in such light tones just moments before, and now he felt the weight of a profound sense of guilt. Quickly he took her in his arms, pulling her against him, their soiled bodies entwined.

“You were perfect. It was just…” He paused. Did she understand? Did she know the dangerous game they had been playing? How much of an innocent was this pupil of his?

“I’ve spilled inside you before, but that was not cautious of me. You don’t wish to end up like Anna, do you?” The maid had been dismissed weeks ago, her belly great and her prospects nothing. Of course that would never be Sansa’s fate–Petyr would take care of any such situation that came along–but still, it would be an added complication. The girl was his and she had all but given her consent for him to treat her as he liked, but there were some lines he knew he should not cross.

“I would need your consent. I would need you to understand the risks. As much as I want to…” And here his fingers dragged down, to the sore area between her legs, slicking themselves. She was so needy, so ripe and ready to be taken, and his half-hard cock edged against her stomach. He would fuck her all day if he could and never grow tired of her. “I need you to let me.”

 

**[Sansa]**

She was pulled to him, and she could not help the feeling of relief from spreading through her. It was greater than the peak she’d so recently hit; the warmth of him against her, the reassurance a girl of her inexperience so often needed.

He explained, and for a moment she forgot to breathe.

He would see the realisation come over her, the real danger of their affair pieced together for her. And was she really so foolish that it had never crossed her mind? It was the one lesson in it all her mother had prepared her for; what the point of marriage, of a man releasing his seed inside a woman, was all for. Children, procreation, continuing the familial line.

Perhaps the illicit state of them forced it from her mind, or she ignored it in favour of her baser needs. The girl counted back to how many times he’d finished within her, to how many risks they’d taken. She thought of Anna, of her tear-strewn eyes as she left a profession of security to be tossed aside. Sansa knew what happened to unmarried girls who were discovered to be with child. A disgrace, something shameful and often without hope for the future.

She thought of herself, growing large with Petyr’s child. The whispers, the question of who the father might be, of Lysa’s innocent niece turned whore. What would he do, what would _they_ do?  
“My consent?” And if she told him no, if she refused him, would he toss her aside? It didn’t matter, really; the poor girl was far too tangled into him, in the life he promised for them, to deny him anything. And her body betrayed it then, her hips angling to allow his touch, a small sound of approval resonating from her. Still sensitive, his fingers were a torture; she wanted him again. She always wanted him, even with the risk laid open in front of her. Perhaps clinging to him made it easier to press the worry aside.

She felt him against her abdomen, still slick with his seed, still slick with her, and of course she would let him. Her eyes met his as she leaned closer, her voice low. “You have it.” Consent, to whatever end he steered her. Sansa’s mouth met his, her fingers reaching between them to graze him, and how far the girl had fallen; there was no way back.

 

**[Petyr]**

When she spoke her voice had a quiet sort of restraint, but it was strong enough that Petyr knew it came without question. And why should it not? She was his, through and through, of course she would consent to all that he would do to her. The thought was a wicked one and he chased it, savoring the idea of Sansa in a thousand different shameful situations, of her sweetness and control and the paradoxical power that lay underneath.

 _You have it_. He played those words over in his mind as she kissed him, her mouth lingering over his. Her hips bucked up against him ( _greedy_ _little thing_ ) and he was quite glad indeed that he had held himself back some. He teased her stomach with his cock, bringing it more and more to erection, while his fingers played with the wetness between her thighs. She was flushed from their exertions but he wanted to see her blush. He wanted her to moan and whine and drip for him.

His other hand brought hers to bear on his cock, ceasing her gentle teasing. He wrapped them around himself, biting his lip at the sensation, while his hand increased its pace against her mound. She would be sore and aching and he wanted nothing more than to stretch her again.

“You want me again, is that it?” Two fingers slid inside easily, curling, and she splayed her legs for him. He could smell her, the sharpness of his desire, and the blood rushed from his head. “Little whore. Can’t have enough of her uncle’s cock.” He angled the head then, spreading her. Their fluids were already combined, their bodies slick with each other, and he moved against her easily. “You want it to drip down your thighs?” He entered her gently, barely giving her with she craved, his mouth a wicked grin against her neck.

“Maybe I won’t have you clean it off. Maybe you should greet your aunt with the stains on your legs.” Short thrusts, just enough to tease her. The sound of them was obscene and he pounced on that.

“Do you hear that? Do you hear what a needy whore you are? How your body begs?” He pulled up then, looking down at her as he entered her fully, slowly. She stretched before him, all red and white, thoroughly debased, the poison glinting just out of view.

 

**[Sansa]**

It was lewd; they were covered in each other, her stomach sleek with his lingering seed. Her arm brushed against the flawless white dress as she felt him, as her thighs opened again for him, as he sunk his long fingers into her. There was no way to hide it, how much she truly wanted him. She would learn, in time, but for the moment her body was not taught to deceive.

 _A little whore_. “Yes.” Her legs shifted, spreading for him.

 _Dripping down her thighs_. “Yes.” And she gave him a soft moan, desperate for more, her nerves still alight from her release.

What terrible words fell from his mouth. The redness rose in her cheeks, shame overtaking her even as the throbbing between her legs compounded with his touch. There was such a wickedness to it all, such a scandal; her uncle, her lover, her tutor, _hers._

He spoke of her aunt, and the thought of sitting down to dinner with Lysa Arryn, the girl still marked by the man, forced her eyes closed. She could see it so easily now; her aunt’s oblivious stare, or perhaps she might think something was off about the girl…a fever, possibly? Her face would be quite flushed, after all. And how he would watch her, their shared secret, _his whore_. His eyes would be dark, much like they looked then, his fingers might twitch, aching to feel those stains on her skin. Just the thought of it caused her to tense, to arch, her mouth open in need.

“Your whore.” A correction, a concession, a tease she gave back. “ _Yours_.” It was nearly a whine as he filled her again. Her concerns were allayed, replaced with that consummate stretch, that perfect torment. Her legs wrapped around him, then, as if to reinforce it, keeping him near. She would not be pushed away again. She wanted to feel him, that warmth inside her, coating and claiming. Sansa wanted to feel him soften, to enjoy those shared, pulsing waves after, the press of his sated body. And maybe the risk of it all made the temptation all the more sweet.

“Inside me, _please_.” The words were gasped between thrusts, and she was losing any ounce of control she’d retained. Her body writhed, inhibitions gone. Fingers dug into his back as if she might have been drowning. The noises she made, dangerous in the quiet, would tell him just how needy she was.

 

**[Petyr]**

_Your whore_.

In truth Petyr didn’t require much to come a second time, his body still tense, still riding the waves of pleasure from her first. But her words of submission, the filthy phrases coming from her mouth (still virginal, but oh how he fantasized about having her _suck_ ) released something primal in him, making it impossible for him to hold back. Nails dug, hips pounded, and the wave built once more.

She moaned above him, she moved her hips in the most lurid of fashions, she begged for him. A part of him still wondered if she knew exactly what it was she asked of him, but the majority of him did not care. Not when his cock was buried deep in the slick warmth of her cunt, not when his nose was full of the tang of her.

A buck, a moan he strangled against gritted teeth, and he came. He felt himself spurt deep inside her, his fingers holding her close to him, keeping her from moving away. He wanted to make her drip, he wanted her to have every drop.

“Filthy little slut.” He spoke with pride.

Petyr felt weak. Ten years ago such an act would not tire him in the least, but at the moment the difference in age between him and his partner was becoming quite explicit. He pulled Sansa on top of him, his hands curling in her auburn waves, their heavy breathes tangled.

“This is mine,” he said, a question, a confirmation. His grip on her tightened, the flesh turning white under his fingers.

She would have other men, of course. Men to use, men to play with. But no one else would be the first. No one else would have her in such a state of debauchery.

“What do you think? Shall I have you present yourself downstairs, bare underneath your skirt?”

 

**[Sansa]**

It wasn’t long before he finished a second time, holding her close, complying with her cries. She felt him, all of him, spreading that warmth deep inside her. That familiar claim, that vulnerable, addictive end, and the girl knew she would never want another.

A slut, a whore; Sansa murmured an agreement into his neck, sleepy and sated atop him. She was drenched in him now, his scent, his seed, beaming at his affectionately crude terms. Oh, how foolish, to let him do what he pleased, to beg him to do as he wished. A folly, but a satisfying one, her lack of caution betraying her youth.

She thought it had simply been lust-fuelled banter, but the man continued, speaking of staying stained for her relation. Sansa’s mouth grazed his neck, leaving a sweet, small kiss, avoiding his eyes. She didn’t want him to see the embarrassment that grew at the thought, no longer blinded by her pleasure.

After a moment to pull together, she leaned up a bit to look at him. “Of course, I would never refuse my darling uncle anything.” Her hips circled gently, a lingering tease as the man softened inside her, a reminder of how much she’d done, her lack of refusal despite the risk. A coy smile played on her lips, even as the worry returned. “ You only have my best interests at heart, don’t you?”

As she spoke, she found herself tiring, her chest pressed to his, covering him entirely. “Although I find my fatigue is greater than my appetite, uncle dear.” The girl could fall asleep, so comfortable she was against him, his grip pulling her into a doze. “Perhaps we could miss dinner entirely?” Her lips moved to his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, initiating a soft, open kiss.

Against his mouth she added. “You could tell her you’re terribly busy.” _Driving into his niece_ , she did not need to say. Another kiss. “Awful, terrible man.” Her fingers slid into the hair at his temple, and she did not want it to end.

 

**[Petyr]**

_Whore_. The word lingered on his lips, on the lurid scent in the air, a choking, obscene sound that infused him with pleasure. The movement of her hips certainly did not help calm him, though his cock was softening nonetheless. As a younger man he would have been excited again in an instant. Now the space of their years was made all the more prominent, and he knew it would take him a bit to prepare himself once more.

A bit, but not too long, certainly not with this girl. Petyr ran the pads of his fingers up and down her sleepy frame, admiring the perfect flesh. Her legs were long and lean, her rump was plump, her waist was tight, her breasts were high. All of her was flawless, save for the marks he had left on her skin, save for the remnants of the act. His fingers lingered over those, committing them to memory, the stains of their sin.

It was beautiful, in its way.

She spoke of staying in this bed, of resting with him. He thought of the future, of a time when they would live out of hotels, under false names. When they would be left to their own devices, to rest and fuck and plot. That was not now; the poison had not yet been placed. They were not being granted the life they wished to live.

Still though, he was a terrible man.

“Hmm?” He spoke against her sweat-stained flesh, his fingers tangled in her hair. “And what if they are to come looking for us?” His fingers ran down her spine to grasp at her bottom. She had her legs slightly parted and he could feel the sticky remnants of the act; he groaned. In truth, Lysa had been busy all afternoon, and it was unlikely she would notice Sansa for long. His eyes were heavy, the room warm and far too nice.

He didn’t notice, in truth, when sleep took him. The next thing he knew the room was dark, the girl still pressed against him. With a heavy heart he parted, to clean the scent of her from him, to plant his lies.

He saw her again in the morning, as he sipped at tea with Lysa. The vial burned in his pocket and his eyes were grey as he met her blue.


	9. Chapter 9

**[Sansa]**

It was morning when she woke, still covered in him.

She vaguely remembered it, falling into a pleasant doze against him, humming into his skin as he stroked her sides, her ribs, her back, until they fell into the mutual, slow breath that came with a deep sleep. And at some point she faintly felt him leave her, replacing his body with the cool air. A blanket covered her, and she couldn’t be sure if it was his hand that guided the fabric atop her or a sleepy decision on her part, but either way she was thankful for it in the morning air.

Making her way to the mirror, to the basin, she wiped herself off with a cloth, removing the dried traces of the man. _You have it_ , she’d said, the consent to spill inside of her, to claim her in a way that came with so much risk.

Even so, the marks that truly stained could not be plainly viewed; they ran far deeper, twisted and dangerous underneath skin and around bone. Before the rushed kisses, before her back arched and toes curled in pleasure, there had been an agreement. Death would hang around them soon, the sickly sweet smell of it would cover the house. And _mine_ , he’d told her, speaking the words that now had a terrible weight to them. She was his.

She nearly missed breakfast, so lost she was in her thoughts. By the time she’d made it to the table her aunt and uncle were already seated. A hasty apology was uttered after Lysa made some remark about arriving late for a meal, but Sansa was focused instead on the man, on his gaze.

She wanted a moment, a second alone with him.

The girl set down her fresh cup of tea, turning to her aunt with the most cordial of smiles plastered on her face. “Aunt Lysa, I’m afraid I forgot to mention Mrs. Hardyng rang for you last afternoon. She wanted your opinion on a blue dress for the engagement party.” A blue dress, and she knew her aunt had a cerulean garment in her wardrobe for the night in question. It wouldn’t do for them to both wear the colour. Before another breath was taken, her aunt hastily flew out of the dining room to return the call.

A few minutes of time bought, she looked to the man. “Petyr?” Her fingers fiddled with the cup’s handle, stilling the nervous shake.

 

**[Petyr]**

She removed her aunt from the room with such skill, and then looked at him without even acknowledging her deft action. Perhaps she didn’t realize what she had done–perhaps she was simply that much of born player that the lie was second-nature to her. Or perhaps she was getting better at concealing such things, at moving though the world on the strength of lies.

Perhaps it was some combination of the two, an innate player learning how to hone her rough edges. Regardless of the reason the outcome was the same, and Petyr could feel nothing but pride.

He sat back to admire her for a moment, watching her finger the cup, the memory of their recent act spreading over him. Sansa’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes wide with a need to please, and it was all so wonderfully familiar.

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” He had hated to leave her there, hated to abandon the soft, sweet bed despite the excitement of the web they were weaving. Soon enough they would be one in the same, his plots linked to his baser pleasure, but at the moment they must remain separate, and the walk back from her room had been a necessity. A painful, painful necessity.

“I’m sorry to leave you with such a mess.” He said as he popped a bit of fruit into his mouth, his eyes not leaving hers. They shone with the wickedness of the tease, the danger of being overheard, the desire to watch her squirm.

As much as he wished to banter he felt the itch to act, the need to take advantage of the time she had bought them. His hand went for his pocket, slipping on the glove, before drawing out the vial. He held it up for her observation.

The summer air was hot and it seemed even the birds rested. The room had the feeling of an inhaled breath.

Petyr uncorked death, held it poised above the tea. His eyes were hard on Sansa, his body unmoving. “Shall I?” He waited for her approval.

 

**[Sansa]**

_Did_ she sleep well? Sansa nodded, her body sore and tired from their act, but it ached in the most satisfying of ways. “I had a pleasant dream. A pity I had to wake up from it, the bed was so warm…” It was a risk, to speak in such a way with her aunt so close, but his teasing stare, his mouth tilting into a smirk, and she could scarcely help herself.

He spoke of a mess, and that familiar embarrassment crept in. She doubted he was truly sorry; for a moment she wondered if he watched her, after, pleased with the state he left her in, drenched in him. She looked down and away for a moment, to the tea in front of her, until his movements called her back to him.

And how terrible that reality had to flood in then, a harsh wave of it sweeping through the room. In his hand was the weapon that would deal a fatal blow, and Sansa reflected on how small the thing was, how benign in appearance. This man had no need for a sword, for a gun, for an army. He was too cautious for it, too clever. If they weren’t so close to the act, she might have had a moment to admire him for it.

Her fingers still trembled, leaving her cup as she leaned forward, reaching and reaching for his free hand, for contact. This sin was a shared one, the contract signed hours ago as skin slid against skin, and it felt right to be touching him when he poured the lethal dose.

Still, the girl’s mouth went dry, her heart pounding inside her ears as if someone had stolen the sound from the room. Breath came, quick and shallow, as her eyes widened. She could stop it, there was still time. She could take the poison from him, she could tell him to stop. _She could drink it herself._

Instead, she nodded, her eyes dragging from his to her aunt’s cup. She’d promised to watch.

It looked so harmless, so benign, that she could almost convince herself it was simply water. And then the vial tipped, a drop falling in, and then another, and another.

 

**[Petyr]**

For a moment some vile part of him was afraid she might falter. A real sense of fear seemed to creep over her features and her whole being seemed to tremble. Such a doubt was thankfully alleviated, swiftly, as she pressed herself forward to grip him. Skin on skin, he could practically hear the blood pumping in her veins, the heat rising. Any shortness of breath, any panic that surfaced, was buried under the knowledge that she saw the importance of sharing this with him. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape, and he was reminded of the sight of her face mere hours ago.

Ecstasy was so close to fear.

The thought spurred him on. Petyr found himself falling into the role of teacher with ease, his movements slow so that she could best observe. _Watch, Sansa,_ his eyes seemed to say. In the future their positions would be reversed, him studying her every movement, walking her through such a process with pride.

Of course, one must start with a passive role. He gripped her hand tighter as the drops began their descent with barely a sound.

“I do think it will be a lovely day, don’t you?” His voice was even, the words carefully picked. Any servant eavesdropping would have little cause to burst into the room, and the conversation would help to make her remember to breathe.

Drop after drop after drop. He was careful not to empty the vial, not to put too much in–not only did he not wish to exhaust his stores, but death must come at the correct time. Too swiftly and suspicion would fall. The amount he gave would ensure them a few days to practice.

Death granted, he corked the vial with one hand. His thumb swept along her free hand, his eyes burning into hers. _Good. You did good_. Petyr had to admit more than a little excitement at the whole thing, the rush of it all going straight to his cock. He wanted to leave Lysa too it, pull Sansa aside and take her so that they could watch from afar, enter her just as the tea was drunk. It was a fantasy that would not find life soon, though he knew he would have her as soon as the next opportunity arose.

Glove off he moved to the basin to wash his hands, his expression never wavering.

 

**[Sansa]**

Oh, he was clever.

The drops fell in, and the man made trivial conversation. Surely silence would have been noticed; it might have brought a servant in to see what caused the lack of dialogue, the absence of silverware brushing against plates or cups hitting their saucers. Her first thought: He was practiced at his trade. And then: _He’s done this before._

The girl nodded, watching and watching the vial. “Yes, it seems so. I think I’ll spend the afternoon outdoors, if the weather continues to cooperate.” _Breathe._ Her voice caught, and she paused for half a second to suck in a gulp of air. His grip tightened, and she returned the hold, clutching him to keep herself calm and grounded. It was strange, how much of a comfort, relief, pleasure, she found in his touch. She could feel some of the tension leave her, her body mimicking his own relaxed posture, even if inside she was alight with panic. “I saw a family of rabbits yesterday and I’m keen on spying them again.”

She did not miss the remaining liquid he placed back in his pocket. A fluid indistinguishable from water, easy to place in anyone’s drink, in anyone’s wine or ale or tea. The man being in possession of such a dangerous thing must be remembered, kept in her mind, filed away, as he cleaned the evidence from his hands. “Perhaps if you’re not terribly busy you’ll join me for a stroll?” Unlikely, but the girl was nothing if not polite.

It wasn’t a minute after Petyr was seated again that her aunt returned, her face red, likely from the false friendly conversation with Sansa’s soon to be mother-in-law.

The woman who played the part of her surrogate parent took the drink into her hands, bringing it to her mouth, seemingly eager to wash the words of her recent argument away. Sansa’s eyes flicked briefly to her uncle, before looking to the woman again. She tried to think of something to say, something to distract herself from the death they were dealing, but the words caught in her throat as the older woman took a generous gulp.

 

**[Petyr]**

He had to admit a warm sense of pleasure filling him at the sight of her adapting so quickly. Any fear, any unease that he had seen shadow her face in the moments leading up to the act was hidden well enough. She gripped him, still, as an anchor (not that he would complain) but she followed his lead without hesitation, marking small talk. Or perhaps there was something to her talk, as the idea of a garden stroll appealed greatly to him. Arm and arm he would lead her down the path, down into the brush, while the clock ticked behind them.

When Lysa returned he was careful not to watch her too closely, but still he kept her in the corner of his eye. His breath caught, as it always did in such moments, and the exhale did not come until he saw her throat move, until the deed was done.

“Perhaps I shall.” Petyr moved to take another piece of fruit, chewing it with relish, his eyes now returned to the girl before him. She seemed somewhat unsure of what to do with herself, her gaze shifting from his aunt and back to him, and it almost seemed as if her own throat had grown thick.

But she steered herself away from making a scene, seemingly content to play her part in this grand act. For a first performance it was truly remarkable. _It gets easier, sweetling._

Lysa had ignored his statement to Sansa, still in a huff over her future in-law, still sipping at the tea. She made some comment about that vile maid, her eyes laying on Sansa in what Petyr hoped was simply a vague warning. His hopes were given some life by the way his dear wife reached for him, clasping with ringed fingers the same hand Sansa had gripped just moments before.

_Oh_ , what those fingers had done hours before.

Still, the way she looked at Sansa worried him somewhat. If he had not already acted it would have pushed him to do something. The delirium would start in about 24 hours; if only they could make it that long…

“Servants gossip. What do you expect, my dear?” He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, felt relief at the girlish giggle.

Outside the birds sung, the wind blew dust into the open windows. The clouds moved across the sky, rain nothing more than a memory. Life went on.

The meal was ate, the dishes cleared. He found Sansa in a front parlor, once Lysa had moved to start her daily calls.

She was dressed all in white; he noticed that for the first time. Her skin was just as pale, her hair all in pins, contained. The sweet ingenue, with her eyes now tainted.

“Do you mind if I accompany you, Miss Stark?” Proper, always proper, where the walls could hear.

 

**[Sansa]**

It was impressive, his ability to remain so unaffected, to lovingly kiss his wife’s hand moments after slipping her a deadly gift. He spoke of trivial things, he deflected the woman’s irritation, with only as much effort as it took Sansa to keep her tea from slipping through trembling fingers. The man controlled the room with deft digits, pulling the strings above the stage, basking in the performance he orchestrated.

Would Sansa be the same, after time and experience granted her a similar skill, a worldview akin to his own? She wondered if her own lips would caress a boy’s fingers in reassurance just before she watched him choke and sputter. She wondered if it would rot her away inside, make her hollow and cold.

But Petyr wasn’t cold, not always. Against her, he was warm.

After the meal she was still intent on a stroll around the estate. Her arms still shook, heart a gallop; the adrenaline coursed through her veins still. Stitching, reading, anything calm would not do for her now. She needed to move, and maybe creating a distance between her aunt and herself will help put it all out of mind.

And then Petyr was there, joining her in the parlour as her thoughts raced. She hadn’t been expecting him to seek her out so soon. Even with the worry, the regret seeping in the edges of her form, she could not help the look of relief that washed over her.

“Of course not, uncle.” Her dress swept as she moved closer to him, still maintaining a distance for propriety’s sake. “The fresh air will do wonders for you mind, don’t you think? I find my own thoughts are quite hazy this morning.” With those words, she left the man, making her way out and out. She wondered if he’d follow her; she _wanted_ him to follow, to trace the steps she made, to seek her out.

From the door and down from the great house’s porch, Sansa took long strides for a few moments, enjoying the earth below her feet. The girl fled the suffocating home as if she could taste the kill already. She chose the sun instead, basking in the glow, enjoying the cool air on her pale face. The door opened and closed a second time, but still she did not look back.

He was right, it was a lovely day, and Sansa was a murderer.

 

**[Petyr]**

She fled the house, pushing her way out the door with sightly more force than necessary, putting as much distance as she could between her and the property with her long legs. She did not look back, her white-clothed form growing smaller and smaller as she made her way to the line of trees, and Petyr could do nothing but follow her.

He wondered, briefly, if it wasn’t part of a test. If she did not wish to see how long he could go before he found her side once more. It wouldn’t do for her to know how much she had him under her thumb, not when he was supposed to be her teacher.

Still, the mix of emotions on her face told him that she needed him. He followed without hesitation.

He did not have her stature but he manged to catch her all the same, sliding up beside her with hands shoved deep into pockets. The sun was bearing down on them but the day was not truly hot, the breeze offering more than a bit of relief. Everything seemed fresh and new, everything seemed at odds with what had just happened. It was a paradox, and it seemed strangely fitting to Petyr.

His blood still ran hot. In his mind he replayed the events, the drops in the tea, the way he had held Sansa’s stare. Out here in nature he could smell her on the breeze, the fragrance that he had spent all night devouring. His fingers itched where they were–he wanted nothing more than to reach out, brush her skin, feel her under his fingertips, but not yet. Not until the distance was enough.

“You did well.” His voice was honest, and when he looked at her there was pride there. Real pride, the kind he never thought to express.

Of course, he never thought he would find her.

 

**[Sansa]**

Was she already dead in his mind? Would he be sharing his bed that night with a still breathing corpse? Sansa wasn’t there yet, to that level of detachment. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be.

“Did I?” His words did more to still her racing heart than she would care to admit. She turned her face away from him, afraid he would see, see the small smile on her lips. It was wrong, to be pleased by such a compliment, but she felt it nonetheless.

The girl continued to walk, then, as the house grew smaller and smaller, until it was the size of a child’s home in the distance. The brush around them grew thicker and less kept, the trees became denser, the silence more profound.

Maybe the quiet helped to clear her mind. She thought of her aunt, cruel but perhaps not cruel enough to kill, and she wondered why Petyr had chosen her as a mark. Surely there were other widows, ones he hadn’t known since childhood. Or was this scheme entirely intentional? When he spoke of her mother, the brief moment he had, it was with an odd fondness. She noticed none of that when he spoke of the sister.

What, then, caused the disdain? The anxious excitement still running through her, she could not help but ask. “You never liked her, did you?” Perhaps her aunt was gone already in her mind as well, as she spoke of her as a lost thing. His effect on her, his education, was threading deeper and deeper, and she wasn’t so sure she minded.

She stopped walking after a moment. They were surrounded by the wood, shading them from harsh rays of light. She looked down to his hands, protected in the pockets of his slacks, and wanted to hold them, pull them toward her and wrap them around herself. But she didn’t; her eyes drifted back up to meet his, and realised how little she knew about the man she’d bound herself to.

 

**[Petyr]**

He stopped with her, their figures shrouded by the trees. The scene was almost an inversion of their first encounter, as this time the heat and weight of the sun could not be ignored, the smell of afternoon so unlike the heaviness of the evening. Her nervousness was an echo, though he hoped for different reasons. And was it truly nerves that made her act this way? Her attention flitted about, her hands were busy at her sides, but her eyes sought his as an anchor, and her smiles could not be truly hidden. She had liked it; she merely wanted confirmation from him that it was okay to feel so.

She spoke of Lysa and he felt a distaste in his mouth. Was he truly so foolish to let his dislike of the woman show through, or was it simply Sansa getting under his skin? Petyr snaked one hand from his pocket and reached out to take her arm, creating the connection once more.

The way she phrased that question told him that she knew the answer already, so he did not even bother to confirm. “Would you care for someone that took from you without a thought to your own desires?” He paused then, his gaze shifting away, the weight of the past pressing against his chest. “This land was familiar. It meant something to come back here.” _And see it destroyed, as it had destroyed me._

Turning back to Sansa he smiled, though he was afraid she would see the falseness there. No matter, he would solider through. “I do not wish to see you whither here. No, I never cared for her, and I don’t think you would blame me. She is a means to an end.” Sharp, and to the point.

 

**[Sansa]**

He recoiled away from her at the inquiry, even with the new contact of his hand on her arm. Closer than before, he felt even more distant. This was a man who did not speak of things so hidden as his past; she could see that plainly enough in his posture, in the briefness of his response. A mistake on her part to ask, but the curiosity was there still, nettling her.

His response was something almost cryptic, speaking of desires, and she dared not ask for him to explain it. Sansa saw something in his expression that she’d never witnessed before. It was something raw, and her brows furrowed as she watched him. She shook her head in response, words failing her.

She wondered if he would ever grow more candid with her. Certainly Sansa would have answered his questions, if he ever asked any. To her, after the intimacy they’d shared it only seemed natural to learn more of each other. It appeared the man had different thoughts on the matter.

Still, she was worried he would grow cross with her. In an odd attempt at an apology, her arm lifted, fingers finding a button on the middle of his shirt, toying with the piece. There was a scar underneath, she knew, one that looked worn and aged and from his youth. She knew nothing about that, either. Each new bit of information she gleaned from him only led to more questions. It was a web, expanding and weaving outward, and she must be careful not to get caught.

She watched her hand, digits splaying now on his chest, maybe as some sort of comfort to herself as she asked something new, despite the finality in his previous tone. “And my mother? Did you care for her?” Would she have been a means to an end as well? A widow, and she’d been vulnerable at the end. An easy target. Had Petyr’s fingers itched for her lingering wealth?

She took a small step nearer, until her arm bent at the elbow to keep her palm against him. Her eyes lifted from his sternum, searching his face, the intricacies she hadn’t learned yet. Her breathing slowed, both of them warm from the sun, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap herself around him.

 

**[Petyr]**

_Catelyn._

For years he had kept her memory fresh, her image sparking both a softness and fury in him that kept him going. She remained in his mind, sharp as ever, locked in the image of his youth. To see her on the walls of this home, grown and changed but not really, had been more a shock to the system than to hear of her death. The picture he held in his mind had been altered, had begun to warp.

And meeting Sansa had only hastened that effect, till what had once been as clear as a photograph was now a fog. He could remember snippets of her, of course, but no longer was there the full picture. No longer was there that pull, that charge of emotion both negative and positive. She had become as she always had been, a memory, an illusion.

Did he care for her? Was it possible to hate someone you cared nothing for? He had worn her lodged into his heart for so long, had created her out of the pieces of what Catelyn actually was, and was it possible to not care for one’s creation?

But he had lost her image without truly feeling it. She had shifted, morphed into this girl before him, and with that shift everything had become heightened. Sansa was far lovelier, she was much more clever, she was receptive, and finally she was corruptible. And, most importantly, the pull that she exhibited on him was much stronger than anything the actual mother had caused in him. He felt this one in his bones.

He would not weather this loss.

Petyr gazed down at her fingers curling against his shirt and thought how he would never let her mother see his scar. Her mother, who right at this moment was fading from view.

“I did.” An honest, though not complete, answer.

He clasped Sansa’s hand at that moment and brought it to his lips, an almost chivalrous gesture. “I was young, then, and foolish. But I would not wish her ill.” _Only in the realm of fantasy._

He worried that the girl might see herself as a replacement (foolish, really, when she was so much more) and pulled her closer still. “I would not do what I just did for your mother.” His eyes were hot on hers, trying to make her understand.

 

**[Sansa]**

She hadn’t really expected an answer from him. Perhaps a half truth or a redirection, something vague as he was wont to do when faced with being vulnerable. And so her eyes might have widened, slightly, in surprise, when he told her of his young and foolish affection.

Sansa had asked for the truth. The girl had been the one to rip open the wounds time had healed. It was her doing, and she thought then that she had no right to feel the twisting in her chest that was threatening to show on her face as well. She’d been told of the similarities between herself and her departed mother; the hair, the height, the curve of her jaw or the shape of her nose. _A spitting image_ , someone had once said, _it’s uncanny._

Even as his lips met her hand, something kind that surely would have made her flush and smile at any other time, it simply caused more thoughts to flood in. She resisted recoiling, wondering if she was some substitute for the original recipient of his affection. When he saw her for the first time, surveying her mother’s funeral from afar, was it Cat he saw in her?

She startled when he spoke again, as if reading her mind. Was her expression so transparent, so obvious, or had he expected the comparison? Either way, it did not matter, his words did much to soothe her fear.

_For me. He did it for me._ The expedited ruse, the clear drops in a cup of tea, was done on her behalf. The man could have left, cut his losses and moved on, leaving the girl and her aunt alone with the maid who’d witnessed an entirely inappropriate scene. And surely Lysa would have destroyed Sansa, blaming her, _a harlot_ , for leading her husband astray. She could see it play out in her mind so clearly, so vividly, so terribly.

He wouldn’t have done it for her mother. The girl allowed herself to be pulled closer, the comparisons reigning in her head replaced with the warmth of him, the heat in the air. Had it only been a night since mouths had met, bodies slick against each other? It felt much longer to her, as her hand lifted to his neck, fingers gazing his skin. Each move was tentative, strangely slow and exploratory. The girl leaned forward, planting a small kiss to the side of his mouth; a thank you, for the truth.

Perhaps they had that in common, youthful foolishness.

 

**[Petyr]**

He was grateful that she did not pull away, though her movements had the same air of nervousness that they had had that afternoon in the parlor, when she had tried to return his gift and he had left her with her first mark. It was as if Sansa was testing out these new waters, as if the shift in their relationship (the before and after of a murder) was so serve that she must needs be cautious. And caution was not something he could fault her for.

Instead Petyr allowed her her shyness. He coiled his arms around her waist as she did she neck, the fingertips merely grazing the silk there (rough, too rough for her skin, she would have nothing but the best). He pressed his face against hers as she leaned in to kiss the edge of his lips, a taste of what, to her, was a new man.

He hoped she liked what she found. The flush on her skin seemed so say as much. The warmth of her was more pleasant than the sun above, the innocence that she conveyed in her white, in her timidness, more than he could bear at this moment. The paradox of it, the desire to protect and comfort, to spoil and revel in the corruption, was almost intoxicating.

He breathed in the scent of her. Sansa wore little perfume but what she had she wore well, tempting dabs at the pulse points, the aroma infused with the heat of her blood. He moved his lips forward to take hers, just the lightest of presses, nothing more.

“She did not have your wit.” Words spoken against red lips, fingers curled under a chin. “She was not half as clever as you are” Words spoken in truth. He pulled down slightly, leaving her mouth agape, touched those lips with his fingers like one touching an idol.

Inside Lysa would be going about her business. The poison would be at work but it would be evening before anything seemed amiss, and when it did it would be small. She would overheat, she would retire to bed early. She would tell Petyr not to stay with her, lest he catch her summer cold. He would wrap himself, instead, in less fine sheets, drown himself in Tully red, marvel at the girl before him.

 

**[Sansa]**

What would her mother think of it, if she saw her in that moment? Surely disappointment would conquer any other emotion, save possibly a mighty rage directed at the older man for taking advantage of a poor, innocent girl. Sansa hadn’t felt innocent for a while, however, and her mother was far too dead anyway. Cat Stark could not save her, and what was even more tragic about it; she didn’t want to be saved.

It was all light brushes and grazing contact between the pair. The was something lewd in it, Sansa realised, as his lips barely teased hers; a feeling beyond that pining affection a girl her age ought to be overcome with. The nearly chaste contact was bestrewn with something dark and unsafe, and she clung to it with a sure hold. It was only augmented and sharpened by his words, singing comparative praises, calling her clever.

She’d made her decision, just as the man had made his to keep her free from his wife’s accusations. And the _clever_ girl that she was, she thought to clasp his wrist, then, keeping his fingers near her lips. Index brushed against her mouth, and she could feel the ridges of the pad just before she gently captured the digit. Blue eyes watched him, his own more mossy than leaden in the beating sun, as her tongue swept across the finger.

She was still learning, always learning. The coyness was new, and she wondered if it worked, if the man enjoyed her teases.

Her free hand reached up beyond his neck, skimming the sweep of grey at his temple. Despite their past intimacies, despite Petyr having touched and tasted where no other had claimed, there was something new to their dance, something that hastened her breath again and flushed her cheeks. Had the danger sparked the new-found sensation? Certainly not; there had been risk from the first time they touched. She’d felt it as early as a hallway handshake, a lingering brush of palms.

Her eyes flicked down to his slacks, to the pocket that carried a terrible secret only they knew of. And back up to him her gaze rose, meeting him with a stare that she was sure meant to sear.

 

**[Petyr]**

She took his finger between her lips with the same delicacy she gave to every act since they had entered the woods, her eyes flickering up at him, telling him she knew exactly what it was she was doing. Her movements were soft, her movements were teasing, her movements sent shivers through him that the act of murder simply could not compare to.

He imagined her in a much more lurid scenario, those red lips parted to take in an entirely different piece of flesh. It was not exactly a new fantasy but now he had the addition of the gaze she would grant him then, in that moment.

Petyr followed her eyes down, thinking that she would go for that (and it would not have been so out of the question, as he could barely contain the excitement that the drop of poison had done to him). Instead they lingered on the murder weapon, and he could not help himself from licking his lips. Sansa drank it in; he could feel the power in her body. When she looked back at him the heat was almost unbearable. This would be the first time or many, but how he wished to savor this first time.

He leaned forward, brushing the taste of him from her mouth, brushing his body against hers. The shadows were tight around them, the woods silent, their retreat complete.

“How do you feel?” A question he felt he had asked her before, under circumstances not so different. In these woods, her body and soul soiled, her eyes alive in a way they had not been before. How does it feel to be so altered?

He remembered his first time, the rush, the fear, the delight at the mixture of the two. He knew she must feel the same, saw it in the color of her cheeks, in the way she explored him as if everything was new. And pressed against her like this, his fingers gripping harder and harder, she would know what it was he felt.

 

**[Sansa]**

They closed in on each other, Sansa’s own movements slow and cautious while the man’s seemed more deliberate. Her chest grazed sternum when his mouth reached hers a second time, and blue eyes closed at the brief contact. The hand at his temple pressed in a little harder, her body acclimating to the welcome intrusion. Without the aid of vision, she could still nearly feel his eyes on her, asking her a question that rang familiar in her mind.

How _did_ she feel? There was guilt there, surely, and fear of being caught. Shame seeped through, for being complicit in killing her family, and for begging her uncle to touch her. And more; shame for enjoying it, for accepting his touch greedily. Maybe there was a modicum of sadness there as well, for the innocence lost, for the child that was so far from whatever she was now.

She could not deny the buzzing energy that flitted through her, despite the fear. It left her with a slight tremble, something almost giddy, akin to the sated afterglow of pleasure. Her breathing certainly betrayed that much, and her hand, which tightened around his shoulder then. She would take the shame, the guilt, in exchange for what she had now; for the first time in a long while,  
she was swimming instead of merely treading water.

“I-“ the girl swallowed, and settled for candour. “I don’t know.” Sansa looked at him, as if his expression might provide her with the answer he expected. She found nothing there save a man who shared the same hungry stare, the same adrenaline coursing through his veins. She could not help but be drawn to it, as if the feeling was contagious, and perhaps it was.

But she could give him a truer answer, she knew, after a pause. “I feel free.” Something nearer to the truth. The tether to the home, to her past life, was breaking; she watched it falter with a detached sadness. She pressed against him entirely, then, her new binding, her incorrigible lover. “And you?” The question was whispered into the small space between their lips, and how she wanted him.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr felt her breath hitch, her body tightening and coiling against his, so like another form of release. He could feel the rush coursing through her, so alike his own, and it seemed to him almost humorous that she would say she didn’t know how to feel. Her body betrayed her every emotion, just as surely as his did, and he knew only some remnant of morals held her back from admitting to it fully.

She was looking to him for guidance, seeking a common ground, seeking approval. He was more than willing to grant it, kissing her to the sound of her declaration of freedom, putting all he felt behind his lips. Sansa’s nails were digging into his skin, imploring him to keep her grounded, and he would not let her fall.

How rare it was, to find a creature such as her! He had seen her lie with ease, had seen her walk down this thorny path with head held high, and there would be nothing to keep him from her side. He could taste the coming sin on her lips and it was nothing short of exhilarating.

His lips curled against hers, the short breath of a laugh escaping. How did he feel? Could he tell her that this was a fantasy long-held made flesh? Lysa had stolen from him, Lysa had taken and batted her eyes and played dumb, she had played the victim. She had twisted herself about him and cast him back down into the dirt, broken and primed for self-repair. Everything gained, everything taken, was just a way to dust the past off himself. Choking the life out of her was the perfect end; he would emerge from this a new man, with Sansa by his side.

He had seen it in Sansa, from the moment he first laid eyes on her. She too had been broken and beaten down, had been constrained by what others told her she must want. She had been accepting of her lot, but no more. He had seen the light in her eyes. He had seen her awaken.

“How do you think I feel?” The tone of his voice should have told her that, if his body did not. He pushed against her harder, his lips going for her neck, his hands curling in the silk.

 

**[Sansa]**

Even in the shade the heat surrounded them, the air was warm as the long morning turned into afternoon. The estate would turn to something languid, she knew, with the unexpected, glaring sun. The groundskeeper daren’t overexert himself, saving the work for a cooler day, lingering close to the property. The house staff would all keep themselves tucked safely inside the house, where they might find relief in their makeshift fans and rolled up sleeves. No one would happen upon them, the girl and her mentor, exchanging words and caresses that were as scorching as the sun that the trees hid away.

Sansa, truthfully, preferred the cold. In autumn and winter she thrived, wrapping herself with warm cloaks and exploring in the chilly landscape. But she had no cause for complaint, then, as her arms tightened around the man. This heat she would welcome, she would share it with him and beg for more. What was cold and snow compared to his burning touch?

He was pleased; the laugh at her mouth, the hold on her waist, and she did not know if she had ever witnessed him in such good spirits. She settled for a more physical answer, her fingers digging into his shirt. “You feel good.” As if to reinforce it, her hips angled to move flush against his, removing any space between them.

She planned to answer him properly; he seemed to share that strange feeling of release, as if he was breaking free of something, just like she was. “You feel-“ The more candid sentiment fell away as his mouth met her neck, replaced with a contented sigh. He belonged there, she was so certain of it now. Against her, atop her, always.

The time for trepidation was gone. Sansa inched back from him, just enough to slip her arm between them. Fingers lightly brushed against his slacks, something intended to tease, to incite. And when had the girl grown so bold, so daring, to touch a man in that manner? To plead for something so completely sinful?

When had she grown to enjoy it?


	10. Chapter 10

**[Petyr]**

Any sense of unease at what they had just done seemed to have left her body. In its stead was this tease, this sense of flirtation, this life. She had just had her first taste at what it took to claw oneself up from the depths and, clearly, she relished it. Petyr could not help himself from picturing how she would be when the act was hers alone, when she wielded death in her slim and perfumed hand, when it was he who watched.

_You feel good._ The same was true of her, of course. She never felt anything but right in his arms, and the illicitness of the coupling only intensified that feeling. In the sunny shadows her eyes had a depth, so that they seemed a darker hue than he had seen before. It was a fitting metamorphosis.

Only the sounds of birds accompanied them. This moment was so unlike their first encounter in every respect. There was light, there was life, and it was Sansa who moved first, brushing against his slacks with a steady hand, inviting.

It was not something Petyr would ever deny her. Soon she would learn that coupling after such an act had an added intensity, that granting death and slipping away unnoticed only added to the pleasure.

He took her tease, pressing her fingers against his slacks, encouraging her to feel. Tangling their digits together he began to walk backwards, careful of the exposed roots, of the thorns, until the shadows nearly swallowed them.

“Have you not complied enough sins for the day, my dear niece?” He raised a brow, his mouth taking on a mockery of concern. He couldn’t keep it up for long, however, his arms wrapping about her waist once more, his lips going to her neck, nipping at the soft and so seemingly innocent flesh.

 

**[Sansa]**

The man intertwined his own digits with hers, keeping her palm against him as he led her back and back. She followed him, of course she did, as he pulled her further into the shade, into the cover of trees. The sun could no longer bear witness to their actions; it could not see her hand beginning a slow, exploratory stroke, and it could not see the light flickering from her eyes, replaced with something decidedly more primal.

His mouth was at her again, on the sensitive skin below her jaw. It was a torture, paired with his hold that anchored her, that kept her grounded. She held his shoulder to stay afloat, but it was scarcely enough in that moment. Her eyes scanned their surroundings, looking for something, _anything…_

A tree was behind him, and it only took the slightest press for his spine to brush against it. She searched for his mouth again, keeping her body close as his back met the tree. There had been a night not long ago where their positions had been reversed; the girl caged against bark, a wicked man reaching between her legs in the moonlight. How different it felt now in the daylight, with her own hand doing the exploring.

“You’re absolutely right.” The girl was nothing but solemn in her reply, save the slight tilt in her mouth she could not hide. “What a thoughtful uncle I have, so mindful of my sins.” Mindful and _complicit_ , as he engulfed her, as he tasted her again and again. How very wrong it all was, how depraved. She gave him a kiss, chaste and sweet, even as her breath came out in more and more uneven rhythms, even as the air did nothing to dull the warmth building inside her.

She dare not ask him of his own offences; they’d been done for her, after all. Instead, her fingers swept up and down, wide eyes questioning. “Should I leave you alone?” She could be coy, she could tease.

 

**[Petyr]**

How different the girl now before him was from the one he had led into the woods that night, when he had tasted her for the first time. She had been alive then, warm and willing, but this girl was solid, blood and wit and desire, the promise he had seen in her made flesh. This Sansa made the Sansa of that night seem a shadow, a reflection of what she could be. He tasted the change, he saw it in her eyes, he felt it in the way she pushed him ever so slightly into the position she wanted. He looked at her with pride, for nothing but his influence could have polished the girl to such a state.

Still she was a pupil, her teases and her pushes filled with the air of expectation, her eyes searching his for approval. She was entering this world gradually, playing with the power he granted her, savoring the rush with enough restraint to keep herself from becoming overwhelmed. She was playing at the edges of sin, waiting for him to guide her fully. When she kissed him, sweetly, he relished the slyness of her smile as one would upon finding common ground.

She would not leave him alone; they both knew that to be a lie. Her fingers were teasing the fine linen of his slacks, playing around the heat there. Petyr thought back to the wicked things that entered his head, his eyes lingering on the pull of her lips. _Yes, oh yes._

“And here I thought you were more perceptive of that?” He ended his words with the tut of a schoolmaster, though the heat in his gaze hid any real displeasure. His hand dropped down once more to her fingers, moving her grip to where he wanted it. He had been half-hard since the tea, truth be told (and what an awful thing that was to admit, but what a rush!) and her lips, her teases, had done nothing to calm him. The strain was clear, the need more than evident.

He made her cover him through the fabric, wrapped around her hand as she wrapped around the clothed length of him. Surely such an act as this had never before entered her head, and the idea of tearing down just one more facet of her innocence was almost too must; he could feel himself pulsate.

“Would you be kind enough to undo me?” A simple enough phrase, but oh, what lay behind it.

 

**[Sansa]**

No, she wouldn’t leave him, not unless he asked. And she was sure parting was the last thing on his mind as he pressed her hand further against himself, urging her on. He was so controlled, so collected in appearance, but Sansa could see the slipping mask, the wearing on the edges as they moved in tandem to feel him.

He chastised her, the man meeting her in the ruse, in the game. Sansa could not help but enjoy it, his teasing words, his guiding movements as he leaned against the tree. She would show him just how perceptive she could be.

He asked to be undone, and the girl was more than happy to oblige him. The hand at her shoulder slid down, joining its partner to work at his slacks. She took her time, keeping his mouth near to his, sharing his breath. There was a slight fumbling between them, her own fingers betraying her inexperience at handling a man’s trousers. Certainly he couldn’t fault her for that, and she would learn, she would get better.

She slipped inside when the garment was loose enough around his waist, gently guiding him free. Fingers grazed, she brushed him up and down, appreciating the feel of him, hoping to hear a hitch in his breath, or perhaps a moan. He forced such noises from her, and surely she could do the same, the girl reasoned.

And what did he want of her then? A tease? She was more than willing, beginning a soft, slow stroke, enjoying her skin on his. Or perhaps he’d take her on the ground, or even against the tree in the same manner he’d nearly had her in the grove.

She was still sore, her body aching from the evening before, the place between her legs still tender from his hard thrusts into her. Regardless, it did not prevent the growing desire. In fact, it seemed to hone it deeper, as if her muscles and skin craved the familiar dance.

She pulled back enough to look to him, meeting his gaze, waiting.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her movements were delicate, exploratory things, her body still getting used to the experience of taking and giving pleasure. Petyr found no fault in it–on the contrary, he gazed at her with rapt attention, mouth slack, drinking in the image of her striding down this new path. He had never before been there at the start, never before had someone who he could lead, and it was not an experience he was going to brush aside.

“Yes,” he breathed against her lips as she wrapped her fingers about his cock, stroking him with a tentative hand, his own fingers hovering near for guidance. His word of approval seemed to send something through her, and he could practically feel her skin prick through the thin silk that stood between his hand and her waist. After a moment he let her fingers work him on their own, the hand that had covered hers moving to her back, tugging her closer still.

Their bodies could not be tighter, and the risk of stain was all too real. He wondered what they would look like when they emerged from this grove, how they would slip back into their roles. A challenge, though not an unwelcome one.

Gray-green eyes cast down, he drunk in the sight of him, thick in her slim hand. There was nothing extraordinary about his prick, but looking at it from this angle, with Sansa Stark’s pale fingers teasing at the flesh, he could not help but feel a very blessed man.

She was growing bolder with each passing moments, fingers sliding upward to tease the slick head, and he found himself biting back louder cries. Something about her fumbling made the act all the more enticing, coupled with the knowledge that this was only the beginning.

She gripped him harder and he drew his hand up her side, squeezing a breast through the fabric, before cupping the side of her face and drawing her attention to him. She held the same over-heated look that he surely did, her lips wet, and _oh_ it was time.

“Would you like to learn something new, sweetling?” His thumb reached to her lower lip, caressing the pout.

 

**[Sansa]**

The motions became easier, more fluid, as she continued. When he pulled her closer, leaving her to work at him without his hand to guide her, she found herself gaining confidence. His breath, his low _yes_ of encouragement, helped aid her in discovering just how he liked to be handled. Her wrist rotated, arm flexing and relaxing, testing the new territory.

And then he was directing her to him, to focus, but how very hard it was when the man teased her, sliding his hand up her body, feeling a breast. The girl found it difficult to ignore such distractions until he reached her face.

Sansa Stark was fortunate in binding herself to such a man, and perhaps she hadn’t fully appreciated it until that moment, watching him watch her. She’d heard of acts of consummation, vague hints from her mother or scandalous talk overheard, and most spoke of it as a chore, as a duty, as something owed to a husband. Her fantasies of a fairy tale romance had been dashed before she came to live with her aunt, and the girl had held little hope for a prince to sweep her away.

The man against her was no prince; he might be the very opposite of a chivalrous knight or selfless hero. It didn’t matter to her anymore, whether he was good or bad (and the girl could not deny she knew him to live almost exclusively in the latter category). He wanted her, he’d saved her from a futureless existence and brought her into a dark, unknown world. Their indecent behaviour possessed no sentiment of duty or debt; it was something twisted and mutual and far too good to resist.

“Something new?” The question was asked against his thumb; the digit kept her lips parted while her brows furrowed, looking to the man. Her hand stilled the stroking rhythm, but her fingers remained wrapped around him, and she wondered what he meant.

Slowly, the girls head moved in a nod. She was his eager pupil, after all. She was his.

 

**[Petyr]**

He held his breath as she considered, exhaled with her consent. He hadn’t really thought she would say no–she had proved herself to be an eager enough student these past few weeks–but there was still the possibility that she would not fully give herself over to him. He should know by now not to doubt her, that she would let him take her by the hand.

There was some pride in that, in that bound of trust. Sansa let him lead the way, her gaze open, and followed his step.

Petyr wished he had worn a jacket, something to give her to cushion her knees, a gentlemanly gesture. Instead he could only hope that her skirts would hide any evidence of exactly what it was he got himself up to with his dear niece. Perhaps he should suggest another location, one filled with soft silk and down, but his body was far too heated to think of leaving.

“Good,” he kissed her then, slowly, letting her explore his mouth. A preparatory act, as it were. Pulling back he looked her over in the low light that spilled through the branches, her auburn hair and blue eyes darker than before, her whole being undertaking an appropriate edge. His hands were light on her, guiding but not pushing, as he spoke with a harsh tone. “Get on your knees. Spread your skirts about you.”

Just the sound of those words made him throb in her hand, made his body shake just a bit. He knew that this would not be a long act, but perhaps that was best for a first.

 

**[Sansa]**

Petyr kissed her, something deep and slow, and Sansa wondered if it had to do with kissing. Was there some trick, some undiscovered way of a meeting of mouths that she hadn’t experienced yet? Either way, his tongue slid against hers and she responded in kind, the lesson nearly forgotten entirely as the heat built up inside of her. Sansa let out a soft moan, something low which resonated in the quiet wood, savouring the connection, the teasing.

But he pulled away, and instead of contact he gave her an odd command. On her knees? She knew she hadn’t misheard him; his hands were a gentle press to lead her down. It was clear enough he intended to stay standing, at least for the moment, his back still firm against the tree.

The man had never hurt her, had never given her a reason not to do as he said. And more than that, she was intrigued; his eyes were starved, anticipating whatever it was he had planned, and she wanted to see it through. Her hand left him; his tone was more teacher than lover then, and she tried not to let the confusion reign in her face. Did he know how naive she truly was? Of course he must know; he’d rid her of enough of that ignorance already.

Her eyes stayed on his, curious as she lowered herself down, clutching the fabric of her white garment in her hands. Bare knees found the soft earth, and the girl scattered her dress around her, mindful of the grass and dirt. She’d have to go back to the house eventually, and what would her aunt think of her covered in stains?

Her arm lifted, fingers reaching to grasp the back of his knee to support herself as she watched him from below. “Like this?” From her new position she was nearly eye level with his hips, and the part of him she’d so recently been curling her fingers around. The girl’s eyes widened on his own stare, and perhaps she wasn’t as naive as she thought.

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched her unfurled herself before her, carefully arranging the silk around her in an effort to keep it pristine. She stood out, a stark figment in the dark grove, a white and auburn mark against the shadows. A dot of innocence teetering on the edge of destruction, her dark blue gaze looking up at him with more understanding than he had anticipated.

Petyr was not the type of man who relished finding women in such a position, unless they were women he wished to drag beneath him. Sansa did not fit that mold, and so there was no pleasure of superiority there, but there was the anticipation of sharing in some ruination. He did not wish her to do anything that did not grant her pleasure; that was not part of the game. But he would push her past her uncertainties and lead her down, down, down.

“You know, yes?” Of course she knew, she was not a stupid girl. She must have heard servants talk, must have blushed at words she could not understand.  
He brought his fingers back to the side of her face, parted her lips once more. He could feel her breath on his aching cock, heat on heat, and he arched his back against the tree, biting his lower lip.

God, had it really been so long since he had enjoyed this this much?

“Taste it first–just a flick of the tongue.” The first command, his other hand coiling in her hair. “Curl your hand around the base, hard.” A teacher’s voice, but how strained it was.

“You can stop at any time,” he added, confident that she would not.

 

**[Sansa]**

The girl nodded at his question, a confirmation she knew, to some extent, what he wanted from her. She swallowed, her gaze slowly moving to his chest, abdomen, and lower, finally meeting the mark. Sansa had never been so close, and as his fingers parted her lips she wondered exactly how it was done. Would her mouth fit him? How did she start?

Lucky for her, the man instructed. Tentative digits crept to the hardness in front of her, sliding with an exploratory fascination as she grasped him in her hand. And the girl leaned, her lips parting a little further on their own, moving until she nearly touched him with her mouth. And then, with the hesitance of the inexperienced, she pressed a soft kiss to the tip of him, a testing gesture.

He’d said taste, and so the girl allowed her tongue a gentle sweep across his head. It was unusual, the feel of it, the slight salty taste she received from the act. She recalled the same flavour in her mouth after their meeting in the study, when Petyr had given her a taste of his seed. It wasn’t terrible, she decided, the lingering sensation on her taste buds was merely new.

The man above her spoke of choice, of stopping when she wanted. There was no choice, not for her. She wanted to see him moan and gasp in the same way he’d done to her. She wanted to be good. Her dress remained spotless on the ground, the pins in her hair were not in disarray as she took her uncle’s cock into her mouth, and enjoyed it.

Her hand remained still around him as she allowed her tongue to glide against him once more, acclimating herself to the position. The fingers holding his knee gripped tighter for balance, and her eyes flicked up to his, seeking approval, seeking that hungry stare that made her burn.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her tongue was hesitant, exploring as she clearly took the word taste to heart, but Petyr could find no fault in it. The illicitness of it, of having his cock licked by his niece, more than made up for any lack of skill. The idea of a fantasy made flesh almost choked him.

And then she looked up at him, her blue eyes tainted, the hunger he saw in them a reflection of his own, and the stifled moan rocked through his body.

“Good,” he said in a harsh voice, granting her the approval he knew she sought. And it was true, for there was no part of this act in which he could find fault. Just the fact that he had Catelyn Stark’s daughter on her knees for him, about to suck him off, was enough to make him weak. The fact that she was Sansa, that she was in possession of such wit, such innocence, only made it sweeter still.

The woods around them were empty, and he was glad of it, but still a part of him wanted an audience, wanted them to see what this poor boy had been granted, what he had done to her.

“So good.” He pushed himself forward then, the head of him splitting her lips, and marveled at the sight of the red stretched around red. “Now you suck. Gently, without the teeth.”

How he had longed to say those words to her, to watch himself disappear into her lips, to know that he had defiled her lovely mouth. His hand moved from her hair, careful to avoid the pins, hoping to keep her pristine throughout the act.

 

**[Sansa]**

Sansa scarcely recognised herself in such a scandalous position. What would the younger, less tainted version of herself think of what she’d become, of the strange journey she’d made? The last few weeks, the time spent in the man’s company, in his arms, in her bed, seemed so vivid, so tangible. Surely this was her truer self, and perhaps it was the life before that was the dream. Perhaps she was finally waking up.

She had no regrets, anyway. This was her choice.

He shifted, guiding himself between her parted lips, and she took him in, careful to keep her teeth away. Knees adjusted, just as her mouth did, to accommodate him, allowing him to inch further and further inward. With the help of her tongue her lips secured a better hold around him, and the girl used the muscles in her cheek to suck.

All the while she kept his gaze, watching his mouth form the praise she’d been seeking, watching his eyes darken as he kept his control. It was beginning to falter, she could see it in his face, in the stifled sounds he made, in his rough voice. That voice, that tone, was hers; it carried a lilt not heard with anyone else, that shared desire, that need. That sound, more potent than any touch, seared through her, urging her on.

She felt his fingers in her hair, and the girl leaned, just slightly, into his touch; _show me, show me_. Again Sansa pulled her mouth against him, her tongue working in aid of the task. It was a slow thing at first, but as she grew used to the motion she was able to take him a bit more, still not near to engulfing him fully.

 

**[Petyr]**

A part of him wished he was separate from his body, so that he could fully appreciate the look of her with her lips around his cock, taking him in. What a sight it must be, her in her virginal white, working over him with a delicate mouth, gripping at his trousers with force, her eyes cast upwards to him with a searching need. What a sight, and what a shame that the effect it had on him made him unable to enjoy it fully, though if he were honest he would not trade the effect for the image. His body was tense with a pleasure he had not experienced in ages (or perhaps never) for even with her unskilled mouth it was still _her_ , and the fact that it was her heightened everything until he was intoxicated. And this, the twisted beauty of this only added to the flavor.

His breathing was shallow, his eyes fluttering closed. He predicted he would not last long and that was surely right. As she took him with more confidence he began to lose himself, his hips moving from their locked position, taking as much of her mouth as she let him. He did not wish to startle her just now, though the idea of making he choke found him scrapping his nails against the bark of the tree for anchor.

“Sansa…” The name was strangled deep in his throat; he wondered if she had ever heard her name spoken with such a tone. She would need to get used to it, the visceral experience of what she did to him.

He pulled back just enough to rest the head of himself on her lower lip, gazed down at her with hooded eyes. Her face was flushed before him, soiled though not completely, not yet.

“Do you want me to finish like this?” A question that he hoped she would answer as he wished, his fingers curling against her cheek.

 

**[Sansa]**

She watched him with her own hazy intoxication, as if seeing the pleasure he gained from her was some strong drink. His eyes closed, his mouth open, and the girl throbbed at the sight. She was doing this to him, she was the cause of his bucking hips, his lapse of control. Sansa could see why he enjoyed toying with her; the reward was worth it.

The way he said her name, the rough, low tone, was enough to cause a moan from the girl. Her body ached, awkward in their positions, her knees growing sore against the earth. She was desperate to be touched, to find release, but the thought of him above her in such a state was more tempting than her own end.

But he paused the act, then, asking her a question, and she wanted nothing more than to see it through. Sansa wanted him to find his release against her mouth, to know that she was capable of it. Her fingers slid against the base of him, teasing him, answering him without words, telling him just how she wanted him to finish.

The hand on his knee pulled him closer, leading him in again, more than before. She nearly gagged as he was engulfed further, taking note of just how much she could take of him, before resuming the motions, her mouth a wet slide against him. The salty taste was stronger now, and his hips pressed further; she knew he was nearing his peak. Her rhythm increased to match his guidance, another moan escaping her working mouth, the hum of it resonating around him. Fingers behind his knee moved up to his thigh, tightening the hold, keeping herself grounded as she watched the man break.

 

**[Petyr]**

Not for the first time since taking her he wished he was a younger man, for in his youth he could have lasted far longer, spilling himself in her mouth and then taking her against the soft earth, dress be damned. Adrenaline had granted him the ability to take her twice in quick succession once before, and perhaps this time he would be just as lucky, though he could no longer count on it. Hopefully, in time, her youth would rub off on him.

It was no matter; the idea of holding back now was out of the question. She was nearly gagging, she was humming, she was gripping him with force and it was enough, it was too much.

Her name came to his lips with a sigh, with a harsh curse. He dug his shoulders into the bark of the tree, not caring what that would do to his own pristine shirt. His fingers dug into the back of her neck. surely leaving dark marks, as he felt himself come.

It was like being snapped. His breath grew short and his eyes closed on reflex. Petyr struggled to open them to get a look at her as she took him in; more than anything he wished to see her reaction as she tasted him. Her name was a constant, nearly inaudible refrain on his lips. He felt her teeth nip with inexperience and the pain only added to the pleasure, his hips canting themselves forward, forward, desperate for more of that heat, that suck.

He pictured Ned Stark standing aside, mouth slack, as he took one more facet of his girl’s innocence. _See now what a poor boy can do?_

 

**[Sansa]**

_Sansa_ , he said, over and over. The girl knew she was lost then, the melody of her name was a torture to her ears as his movement hastened, leading her to move faster, to wrap her lips tighter around him. His hips pressed, and she received as much as she could, her moans reaching a higher pitch as their pace quickened. His hand was unforgiving on the soft flesh of her neck, and she was certain the marks would be visible later. She would have to wear her hair down tomorrow, she knew, to cover his bruises.

To watch him, to see him lose his well maintained, reserved nature, was nearly enough to drive her over the edge. For a moment she wondered what would happen if she stopped, if she delayed his peak, choosing to watch his dark eyes and frantic movements a little longer before he finished. She wanted to savour it, the desperate expression on his face, his mouth muttering her name.

He tensed, then, she felt it against her as he reached his end. That warm fluid filled her mouth, a rush of that familiar saltiness, and she willed herself to relax her throat, to swallow. Was it safe, she wondered, was that what he wanted? There was little use it questioning it now, she closed her eyes and felt him coast through his pleasure, her reflexes an aid in the act.

She pulled back gently, and he slid from between her lips, no longer as hard as he was before. Her hand left his thigh as her eyes lifted once more, taking in his sated form before meeting his gaze. With her stare she asked the question: _have I done well, uncle?_

The girl’s body throbbed, alight with an unresolved need, as her fingers brushed her mouth, feeling the remnants of him there.

 

**[Petyr]**

He filled her and she welcomed it without hesitation, with barely a gag as she took him down her throat. He wondered if it was not some surprised instinct that allowed her to do this, but no matter the source the outcome was certainly sweet. Through half-closed eyes he was able to watch her taste him, truly–that day in the study had only been a prelude to this. Petyr tried to say her name one last time, grant her one final thanks, but the sound was hoarse in his throat and it came with a sputter.

He worried that they had been too loud, that this meeting had not been as discrete as he had wished. This concern, however, was brief, killed when she looked up at him with his seed still on her lips, with her cheeks red, with her eyes searching.

What a powerful position this was in be in. Petyr allowed himself to savor it just as she did the taste of him, his fingers curling about her neck. It was not merely having a woman service him that made him feel this way–any fool could do that–but that it was Sansa, wearing these stains on her perfect mouth, looking up with him with that dark need, wanting more. Curious, and willing to be corrupted again and again. His.

The moment of reflection done he snapped back into his duties as a partner. He could tell from the girl’s heated state that she was very much in need of a release of her own, and he certainly did not wish to deny her.

His other hand moved to take hers from his cock, pulling her to her feet as the hand at her neck moved to her waist. With force he gripped her close, until they were truly entangled against the tree. The hand at her waist gripped at her skirts, pulling until he could feel the skin underneath, sliding upward until he reached her undergarments. She was soaked through and he gave her a hum of approval as he took her mouth, tasting himself on her lips. Underneath his fingers teased the bit of silk until it was too much, until he had to pull and feel her bare against his palm.

 

**[Sansa]**

He lifted her, guiding the girl up to meet him, and how sweet it was to see his sated eyes, his breath just a little uneven, those remaining signs that she’d watched him break under her hand, her mouth.

It had been so long since she possessed any sort of control in her life. Her family had been in turmoil; she’d been helplessly passed around, an object, a burden. The girl’s decisions had not been her own; living with her awful aunt was only the most recent example in a handful of years. She knew she oughtn’t complain about it now, as she never would have met him if she hadn’t moved to the estate.

It was different with Petyr, and even as he led them, even as she followed, she knew she was slowly making her way toward even footing. She was a bird healing, keel and sternum mending at the man’s attentions, preparing her for flight.

Sansa’s arms found his shoulders, the lingering ache at her knees subsiding as the man ventured lower, her clothes being rearranged in a hasty motion as his mouth met hers. She wondered if he could taste it at their kiss, the seed lingering in her novice mouth. And had she done well? The thrum of his chest, the reciprocating fingers searching between her legs, seemed to indicate she had not failed him.

Her uncle’s fingers were tight around her waist, and she wanted tighter, more, as she pressed herself flush against him. Watching the man come undone had only served to hasten her own desire; her body was tense, pulled tight as a bowstring, as his tongue slid against her lips.

His hand found her, surely slick at the touch from her need, but the girl was far too fevered to feel the shame entirely then. Nails dug into his back, much too harsh, and the girl wondered if Lysa might see the marks. Against his mouth she moaned his name, her hips searching for friction, for that long awaiting release.

 

**[Petyr]**

It seemed almost a step back to go from the intimacies she had granted him in her bedroom to this rutting, this awkward press of bodies and mouths, but Petyr not break from this for the world. She needed release and that was what he would grant her, her reward for a task well done. Sansa clung to him, nails biting and bruising and claiming and he wanted nothing more than to grant her the same pleasure she had just given him.

She was so slick it was almost hard to build friction against her clit, though luckily for him her hips began to move, seeking it out like the greedy little thing she was. Her legs trapped in her underclothes he fingered her roughly, conscious of the ache she must feel, the need he heard in the noises she made against his mouth.

Two fingers slid inside easily, pumping and curling–not as satisfying as a cock but it would do, especially with the constant tease against the real source of her pleasure. Petyr held her close, enjoying the press of her breasts against his chest, mouth moving from hers to the long line of her neck. His kisses there were wet and open and he wondered if he would not leave some trace of the stain behind. Words curled in his brain, the kind of wicked things he loved to say in moments like this, the kind she blushed at but devoured all the same.

“Such a sweet niece I have, to service her uncle so.” It came as a hot breath against her, in came with the edges of a smirk. “Did you like the feel of me in your mouth, sweetling?”

His fingers continued their work, bringing her closer and closer to the peak. He could feel her start to lose herself around the edges, feel her tighten in his arms. He had no wish to deny her anything, or restrain her, despite how delicious an idea that was. She deserved this, she deserved this pleasure, and he was a very good uncle.

 

**[Sansa]**

His fingers were a welcome intrusion, and the girl could not help the relieved sigh into his mouth at his entrance. Her legs spread a little wider, still caged by her undergarments, as they found a rhythm against each other. Her dress constricted, too heavy for the act, and she wished for her bed, for skin sliding against skin, for _more._

His moved to work at her neck, and of course the man spoke, then. Her face burned, but it was nothing in that moment compared to the heat below her navel. “And such a considerate uncle.” Every other word was spoken with a gasping breath as he pumped inside her. “Never leaving his niece to suffer.”

And should she tell him? She _had_ enjoyed it, the way he’d told her just what to do, the way he’d fallen apart around her lips. Even the taste of him, now shared between their mouths, carried that reminder of a truly lewd act. And she’d wanted it; the girl had only needed the smallest of prompting on his part. A gentle hand, his encouraging words, and yes, she’d enjoyed it.

Sansa nodded against his skin, unable to say the word. _Yes, yes._

She’d fallen to her knees for him, and in the same way that she was certain a whore might, took him into her mouth and swallowed without question. And what was she now, writhing against him? Her hips chased his teasing digits, whimpers resonating through the warm air. Oh, it was filthy, she knew that truth so well now, and his words only made her nails dig deeper, her breath grow harsher.

It was dangerous, her growing ties to the man. She was having difficulty recalling a time when he wasn’t a presence in her life, when she wasn’t entangled around him.

But his clever fingers worked, and the thoughts of danger faded like smoke. “ _Petyr!_ I’m-“ The warning came too late; her muscles clenched around him, arms tightening to keep her upright as her body trembled in release.

 

**[Petyr]**

He could not decide what gave him the most pleasure. The nod at his neck, confirming all that he expected, but that her words could not express? The way she clenched about him as she came, the tremors that had rocked her body taking over, consuming the two of them? Or the way his name spilled from her lips on a breath, choked and exquisite, telling him he knew exactly how to treat her right?

It did not matter, really. Her pleasure hit and Petyr felt it keenly, holding her tight to keep her upright, fingers and palm cupping her sweet, swollen lips. He wondered if she was not still sore from the night before, if she still had the ache that came with inexperience. Perhaps later he would find out.

The heated air around them grew silent as they caught their breathes in each other’s arms, the sounds of nature returning. Petyr could feel her heartbeat slow, a reflection of his own, and began to untangle himself when he was certain she could stand on her own.

“There now,” he said, taking in her flushed state. “That’s a good girl.”

As he spoke he drew his fingers from her core. They were slick with her, and without a thought he brought them to his lips, licking them clean. The taste of her was like nothing he had experienced before, so fresh and pristine, and he simply could not let this opportunity pass. He watched her as he did so, noting her expression, the digits of his other hand languidly playing at her waist.

Sansa did not look so worse for wear. Her dress had some wrinkles in it but she had been careful, and there was no obvious dirt. He could feel that his shirt was rumpled as well, but they should be able to make their way into the house without arising suspicion. Any signs would be underneath, finger marks and stains the only remnants of this act. Fitting, really.

“Shall we go inside?” And observe our work?

 

**[Sansa]**

Was it the delay in her own end, the time spent working around her uncle’s cock, watching him shudder, that augmented those waves of sensation through her? It might have been his words as well, which never failed to make her throb, as wicked as they were. What she was wary of admitting, what she was afraid of admitting even to herself, was that it might have been the act before the wood, the lethal drops in a harmless cup, that magnified his effect on her.

Her legs were still shaky as her breathing slowed against him. And how she wanted the moment to last longer, span further than the few post-coital minutes that was their norm. The day before she’d fallen asleep coiled into him, covered in him, content, and how sweet it had been. There would be no hope for it now; their time outside was already precariously bought. They had their duties to perform.

She watched him clean the remnants of her need from his fingers with fascination. Did he truly find pleasure in tasting her, or was he doing it on her behalf? In this way, they’d both tasted each other, his tongue enjoying her just as she’d swept the taste of him along her own. Despite her recent release, the look in his eyes, the satisfaction, drew some of that heat back between her legs.

How shameful.

A bit of hair was out of place on his head, just above where grey began. Small hands reached to sweep it back, righting the stray piece. She smiled at the man, something coy and newly learned, before she took a step away from him, that sense of propriety returning by the second.

The girl wanted to ask before they veered too close to the house again; her voice low as she turned to him. “Will she be well for the engagement party, do you think?” Her fingers fidgeted with the ring on her finger, turning it around, picking at the gem. Harry would be a constant presence soon; the ring was simply a reminder of who she was meant to belong to. Eyes flitted to the older man as they walked back to their lives, and she knew the ring was nothing more than an empty promise.

 

**[Petyr]**

He marveled at the way she slid with ease back into her role, correcting his appearance with a steady hand, stepping away with him with a jaunty smile on her lips. Nothing at all would indicate that she harbored any fears and doubts, that the weight of murder pressed on her. No, she was simply a girl, excited and utterly pleased, fully committed to a lover.

They walked back to the silent house not touching but hovering near each other, fingers longing to entwine, their bodies locked in step.

At her question Petyr turned to her, saw her fingering the ring on her hand. Such a worthless trinket for such a hand; he would soon enough see her dripping in finer jewels. The boy might come in some use in the months ahead, though, best to string him along for now.

“I would not expect that to go forward, sweetling.” He kept his voice low, lest a breeze take his words to the house. “I would be prepared not to make too many plans for the future. I would be prepared for anything.”

The path before them to the estate was a straight one but Petyr could see what really lay ahead–a thorny, dangerous road with an enticing prize waiting at the end. One just had to be ready to jump, to run, to not question why.

Sansa was walking so close her skirts brushed against his leg with each step, and he could quite clearly picture the state in which he left her legs. He resisted the urge to reach over and press a hand to the small of her back, to lead.


	11. Chapter 11

**[Petyr]**

The hours ticked by and they stayed apart. Best not to allow rumors to gain footing.

Petyr had spun a lovely tale to Lysa about the maid, and Lysa ate up every word as she always did, but nevertheless there was something off about the air surrounding her. Perhaps it was merely the scent of death that made him think so, but Lysa did seem to cling to him harder than she did the day before. He was forced to spend most of the evening in her company, watching her watch him, trying to see if she let any suspicion slip across her face.

Not a difficult task–Lysa wore everything out in the open–but it was hard tonight to separate any real concerns from the same desperation that always clung to her. He had not spent much time in her company these last few days, and it was difficult to tell if she harbored any legitimate concerns.

She seemed to grow more and more content the longer Sansa stayed away, locked up in her room. Petyr thought of his promise to the girl, to come to her that evening, but as the summer sky darkened and Lysa entangled herself further and further into his affairs, it not only looked like that would be unlikely but that he would never even get word to the girl.

Around 10 o’clock Lysa complained of a headache, and as a concerned husband he took her to their room, his eyes lingering for a bit too long on the locked door of Sansa’s, on the light underneath.

 

**[Sansa]**

She waited and waited after the sun fell, listening to the dull hum of crickets outside of her window, willing the cool breeze to sweep through her room. If she pressed her ear against her door she could faintly hear the shrill voice of her relation, and every once in a while the lower lilt of her uncle in response. The woman was not truly suffering yet, keeping the man through the evening as constant company.

It left a stinging inside her chest, the sharp pierce of a furious bee, to think of them. She knew that her envy was unwarranted; his affection, his consideration for her aunt was nothing more than a means to an end. But still, it was there, and it was strange; her claim to him was naught. She held no ring, no binding save his words, but somehow that seemed stronger, more unbreakable, than a piece of metal around her finger.

The girl took Harry’s ring from her third digit, set it on the nightstand, and began to doze.

 

She told herself it was that same twinge of jealousy that kept her to her own quarters most of the next day, that it was her own childish envy that urged her to isolate herself. The truth might have been more cowardly; seeing her aunt deteriorate, slowly and painfully, weighed against the girl’s heart. Perhaps it would be easier when she did not know the mark, when it was not her family.

The thought of _when_  in place of  _if_ did not escape her. She knew the course he steered, she knew the route, the danger, the inevitability of more of _this._ She knew and she did not balk.

Dinner was an odd affair; she’d expected a pale, sickly aunt and her concerned husband, and she was graced with the presence of neither. She ate in silence, only speaking to ask the maid how her aunt was fairing. _She’s abed, miss, sweating with fever_. And so the husband must be tending to her, then, playing the role he knew so well.

Harry called in after the meal, a bouquet of roses for his intended and some tonic for dear, ill Aunt Lysa. _My family is yours_ , the boy said, and what's more, she must be well for the party, for the wedding. She insisted the conversation be cut short, however, lest her aunt’s condition was catching. At the thought of a contagious illness the boy was all too pleased to retreat, and Sansa did the same, back to her room, her sanctuary, tossing the tonic into her chest of drawers.

She fell asleep quite early, curling into the sheets of her bed, drowsy from the warm air. While the girl was not typically a deep sleeper, she did not hear the door open and close, and she did not rouse at the sounds of steps to her bed. It wasn’t until her name was spoken that eyes opened in a tired drag, looking to her intruder.

 

**[Petyr]**

He was well-poised to watch the sickness overtake her. In her pain Lysa seemed to want nothing more than to have him by her side, always, and so Petyr was able to see as the fever swept in, as her eyes began to cloud. He was able to judge how long she had left from the color and feel of her skin, from the way in which she dozed more and more frequently. He did this all with a worried brow, playing his role as only an expert actor could, asking the maids question after question.

He did not let on that his thoughts were always elsewhere, to the girl who lingered and languished across the hall. He was beginning to no longer be able to feel her skin when he closed his eyes, so deep was he in the feel of Lysa. It was beginning to sicken him in turn, though he hid that as well. Best not to draw too much attention to himself.

So he read to his wife, and spoke to her, and fed her meals, and watched the hours tick away. Every second brought her closer to the earth, and with every second he could feel his excitement build.

The day stretched away, a day passed in the choked environment of the sickroom. Night overtook them, though the maids did not stop their attentions, not until their mistress seemed to fall into a deep sleep that Petyr knew would be the first of many–the sickness was more than rooted now, it was dragging her down.

Perhaps it was that knowledge that emboldened him. Perhaps it was simply a desire to escape the pressures of the room. Or perhaps it was more primal than that, a desire to hold her in his arms, to feel her and take her and exalt in a victory almost won.

Regardless, the outcome was the same. In the early morning hours he kissed his wife’s fevered brow and made his way to his niece’s room.  
She had left it unlatched for him; of course she did. Closing the door without a thought he made his way to her bed, his gaze locked on her, already desire biting at his heels.

_“Sansa.”_ The name was so sweet on his lips. It stirred her from her sleep, her blue eyes shining in the dark. Everything about her at that moment was such a relief, such a balm, that he could not stop himself from falling to her bed, gathering her face in his hands, kissing her roughly.

 

**[Sansa]**

She hadn’t been expecting him, if she was being honest with herself. The girl had pictured him wrapped in the arms of his feverish, rotting bride. She’d imagined him sleeping against her, the ominous nature of it all radiating from her as the woman thrashed about in misery. He was a harbinger of death, one who sought to watch it with a keen eye, one who would stroke her arm and kiss her cheek as his poison consumed.

But he was kissing her now, and so sweet it was perhaps he was killing her as well, a death slower than drops in a drink, and much more pleasant. Foggy eyes closed again, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room, as his fingers held her jaw, his mouth working on hers with that now-familiar intent, that harsh joining.

Her hand clutched the sheet surrounding her, pulling it away in a swift motion, eliminating one of the barriers between them. And then they were on him, returning his own sentiment, pulling him closer to her. How effortless her spine, her hips shifted to accommodate him now, how easy it all seemed.

She wondered when it truly happened, when had she come to fit so well against him? There wasn’t much time to think on it, and she wondered just how many minutes the man could spare. It hastened her movements, urging her on as she nipped at his lower lip with her teeth.

They were forever on bought or stolen time, it seemed.

Still, it did not stop her from making a comment, a small smile against him. “You missed dinner.” She could scarcely pull her lips away from his for long enough to speak, but she knew she must ask. Curiosity was getting the better of her, despite the heaviness on her heart. “How is she?” Ill enough for her husband to part, or sleeping, the girl assumed. But perhaps a part of her wanted to hear a little more, to hear his voice.

 

**[Petyr]**

It was so much, almost _too much_ , to be kissing her here, against the softness of her bed, after the sickness of the other room. She was wrapped about him, her limbs soft and long and encompassing, and her teeth were nipping at his lips with the same hunger that coursed through him. He found himself quite unable to not mirror the smile that pulled at her mouth, taking pleasure in the inquisitive nature that she seemed unable to quell.

“I did.” The sheet was gone and he found his attention drifting away from her words, his hand going to one smooth leg, running the pads of his fingers against her skin. She was clad only in her slip, silk on silk, a creature of softness. Everything here had the taste, the flavor, of the new, the utterly desired. Looking down at her, taking in the whole of her, he felt nothing but assurance about his future.

To hear talk of Lysa now did nothing to dampen his lust. If anything, being presented with a task near complete inflamed him further. His other hand went from her jaw to play with the thin strap against her collarbone, running over it and tugging at it, letting her feel the heat of his gaze.

“She’s quite ill indeed, and sleeping. A deep sleep–she’ll be coming in and out, until…” He pulled at the strap then and covered her skin with his mouth, sucking at the flesh there, unable to resist himself from leaving a mark, a claim. _Mine_ , almost completely.

“Have you been very concerned?” Petyr mouthed against her skin, the hand at her leg traveling further still, teasing. “Such a dutiful niece.”

 

**[Sansa]**

_Quite ill_ , he said, and for some reason she was slightly surprised, as if she’d dreamt it all, as if the grove, the affair, the poison were all some fantasy wrought from simple boredom. But it _was_ real, she told herself, as her face flushed at his touch, as he spoke of the infirm woman down the hallway. Perhaps it was the lingering fogginess of sleep that addled her mind. Of course her aunt was sick; she’d witnessed it, she’d been a part of it.

His mouth pulled against her skin, and Sansa arched into it, allowing him more, wanting more. It seemed fitting to be left bruised, to be left with signs of their act, something of a reminder. In that way, she could look at herself in the mirror the next morning, the memory of the awful things they’d done, and how much she’d enjoyed it, circling her thoughts.

“Deeply concerned, as was Harry when he stopped by this evening.” She wondered what he would think of the mention of her intended, looking down to where he worked against the pale flesh below her collarbone, her mouth left open as she watched. Fingers tangled in the hair at his temple, both keeping him there and urging him on. Her slip was too warm, the man was too clothed, as the room warmed along with their bodies.

“Not as dutiful as you.” Her other hand found her thigh as well, intertwining his fingers with hers, desperate for contact. It was terrible, how much she’d missed his touch, how she could already feel the dampness between her legs, all for him. “You haven’t left her side.” She tried not to let that lingering jealousy ring out in her tone, but the sentiment might have slipped through against her will.

Her legs inched apart to ease his task, her clothing hitching up slightly with them; she was such a thoughtful girl.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr was beginning to lose himself in the taste of her skin, the soft fragrance that seemed to linger about her at all times, when she let out the name of her intended. It shouldn’t have gnawed at him but it did, the image of the boy rooting itself in his mind. He could see his simpering face, his fingers tangling with Sansa’s, and he felt his back arch in a unwelcome gesture of jealousy.

Perhaps it would be different when she was his, fully, when their marks had no chance of locking themselves to her with legal bonds. When they merely came and took and took and left without any strings attached. Perhaps then he would be able to think of her being touched by another man without this desire to show her, to show everyone, who she truly belonged to.

But maybe it would always be there, this possessive need. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

And Sansa seemed to be on the same wave as him. As her hand began to guide his to her core she spoke of her aunt with nothing but contempt in her words, a bitter tone underlying everything. The thickness in her voice grabbed him deep and low in the gut, and he found himself pulling at her, taking her welcoming gesture and grabbing at it.

“Does that bother you, this role?” Petyr pushed her back against the bed, his hands helping her work her slip off her body, the weight of him pinning her; he savored this act of power. The girl lay bare beneath him, her skin flush as his must surely be, her mouth wet and open.

“Have I been remiss in my duties to my sweet niece?” His fingers dug into her thigh, pushing upward until he was able to tease her wet lips. He choked a laugh against her ear, parting her with a gentle hand. “Have you been quite needy?”

 

**[Sansa]**

She did not miss it, the way his body tensed at the name of her fiancé. It was shared, that jealous twinge, as unjust as it might have been. She was promised to Harry, after all, just as he was promised to her aunt. Even if their significant others were pawns to be played and discarded, it was strange she felt burdened by the thought of him attending to his legal wife.

He’d noticed her tone, just as she thought he might, and she found herself not wanting to disappoint him. “No, it’s just-“ _Ah_ , and could she say the words, as weak as they sounded? That she’d _missed_ him, that the thought of him sharing a bed with another nettled her deeper than she thought it would, or could? At any rate, with him surrounding her then, covering her and tasting her skin, the feeling was slipping away. “No.” The girl said again, firmer. It didn’t bother her, or at least it wouldn’t in another day when the cause of her envy would be dead and gone.

Together they removed her clothing, and the girl welcomed the cool air paired with the darkness of the room. Even after their lengthening number of couplings she was nervous about her bareness, grateful for his form covering her.

His digits reached her parted thighs, feeling the slickness there, amused at her need. And that was the embarrassing truth of it; she _was_ needy, and each time she found her release with him it only seemed to compound that urge. As if to prove it, her hips lifted into his hand, providing him with his answer, her eyes closing as a soft moan escaped her mouth.

He was still clothed, the man above her, and the girl worried about staining him. But more than that, she wanted to feel him, she wanted his skin against hers. “You’ll ruin your slacks, uncle.” Her head turned, searching for his mouth as her pelvis lifted again.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her body was doing nothing to disprove his words, her hips raising up to meet his searching fingers. There still seemed to be some lingering bits of shyness about her, her body coiling against his to hide her nudity, and though she had no reason to be nervous–she was perfection in human form, as far as he was concerned–the taste of innocence only furthering his growing arousal. She spoke of staining his trousers, but he didn’t need her prodding to want to remove them. They were already becoming quiet uncomfortable.

He caught her lips in a sloppy, open kiss as his hands worked to free himself, pushing them down and off the bed with an inelegant movement. Petyr returned to covering her with his lean frame, pressing down against her so that she could feel the thickness of his need, teasing her with what she did to him. “Is that better?” His voice was a moan as he returned his fingers to her, sliding up and down her lower lips, slicking themselves with her.

He could hear nothing but her heated pants, the groan of the bed, could feel nothing but her. _Her,_ always her; he existed for moments like this. He didn’t wait to ask, his fingers moving to undo his shirt, his body desperate for the friction of skin on skin. Pulling up to remove it his cock brushed between her thighs, and the way in which she arched against him with a sweet sigh on her lips, made him keep it there.

“Did you miss this?” One hand moved up to a breast, the fingers wet, while the other pressed his prick against her core. “Were you thinking of this all day?” _I was._

 

**[Sansa]**

When he next pressed against her his lower half was bare, and the contact extracted from her something near to a relieved sigh. “Yes.” _Yes_ , it was better, it was right, and as his digit teased again she was having difficulty maintaining any measure of control. Her lower spine rose to meet him, fingers assisting him in the task of removing his shirt. She’d been patient all day, but that feeling was fast waning, replaced with the frantic feeling that came with their dance. She fumbled with the last buttons, finally helping him pry the material away.

That warmth, his sternum pressing against her breasts, and she clung to him, her arms caging him atop her. There was no barrier then, nothing between them. Even the air around them seemed to retreat; she found herself unable to catch her breath as she writhed under him. The moans he made, signalling his own faltering hold, merely fuelled the heat at her centre.

His name was the only word on her tongue when he asked if she missed it, his fingers leaving a wet trail on her chest. Their meeting in the wood seemed so long ago, and even then, as lewd as it had been, she’d barely felt him. This, the desperate slide of meeting skin, the slow teases, this was what she had been craving.

In truth, she had been thinking of it all day, isolated to her room, eager for that promised freedom. She met his eyes, and she was certain he could see the tease there, mixed in with the lust, when she spoke next. “And were you? Were you thinking of me?” When he leaned against his unwell wife was his mind on the girl across the house? The thought caused a heady rush through her, a leg wrapping around his torso as he aligned himself at her entrance.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr stared down at her, fingertips exploring her flesh, his shoulders set with pride. It was him that drew out this breathless, lewd reaction, he had awoken the woman inside. She was beyond loveliness, caught at the end of innocence, and it was all due to his hand. He was the first to taste, and he would continue to devour her, ripping into her as she transformed into what she was to become.

It was a feast he was eager to have, and he took a moment to appreciate all that lay before him.

His name was on her lips, a sigh, a tease. Her eyes when she looked at him were coy, a shade that he never would have seen there weeks ago. Sansa was really coming into herself. She was pulling him down along with her words, forcing his hips forward. The head of him entered her and he choked back his deep sigh.

It would be impossible to lie in this moment. “Yes. Always.” The truth felt strange on his tongue, unwieldily, but if anyone deserved to hear it it was this girl, stretched before him, consuming him.

Another cant of his hips and he was fully seated inside. Sansa was dripping wet, and took him smoothly, with only the softest of sighs. Petyr settled, allowing her to feel every inch of him, enjoying the tight grip that she had on him, the way she pulsed about him.

“Do you blame me?” He pulled back only to fill her once more, rolled his hips and began to find a rhythm, began to fuck, staring down at her pinned beneath.

“I want nothing else. Only this, only this.” His voice was strained, the words low. It was a naked confession, but he could do nothing else but talk, but tease. “I know you feel the same. I feel it.” He pushed himself into the hilt, leaned down to take her lips.

 

**[Sansa]**

His honesty surprised her, but she felt some of her worry allay at it, as if his reassurance was some cure for guilt. He filled her, before she could respond, and how she had missed it. The pain of their first encounter was nothing more than a memory then; she anticipated him, his length, the slow slide inside of her, striking the nerves at her core.

_Nothing else._ Did he know just how much that meant to her? A man who made his living in lies, and she could discern none in his words in that moment. Her fingers dug into the soft skin of his back. “Only this.” An agreement, as her hips angled to take him deeper, to pull him in. And he knew, he knew because he felt it as well; that confirmation in the form of words was nearly enough to drive her over the edge. “Petyr, yes, I feel it. _I feel it_.” And her mouth responded in kind, yearning for more contact after such an admission.

It was a cruel addiction, her desire for the man. Like liquor, she carried a constant need, for his words and his touch. Any drop, a heated stare or innocent graze, was enough to drive her hopelessly forward, desperate for a proper drink. But he was worse than any ale or whiskey, and more terrible by far. The things she knew she would learn from him, the things she knew they would do…

Still, wrapped around him, moaning into his mouth, and she had never felt so content, so safe. Her form bucked up to meet him, their fluid movements growing increasingly greedy, the sounds they made resonating in the room as the bed shifted.

But something caught the girl’s eye, then; a shadow near the door. “Oh, _God…_ ”

She was there, covered in a robe, tendrils damp from feverish sweat sticking to her face. Her aunt, watching them, a witness to her husband fucking their niece with abandon. And the girl, with her legs around him, moaning, her hips moving in a way that surely belied her innocence.

Sansa tensed, pushing the man away from her with force, just in time to hear the woman wail.


	12. Chapter 12

**[Petyr]**

He didn’t have time to think.

The sound, low as it was, was deafening in his ears, consuming all. Sansa was pushing him away and at any other time he might have protested, might have questioned, but there was no time to do anything but act. His heart, the beat already rapid, was pounding until he felt he might choke on it. His limbs, already tightly coiled, moved to act in a entirely different way. His whole being, just moments before locked in an act of pure sensation, was now forced to _react._

With the force of her push he left the bed, pulling his trousers on before he even reached his full height.He was still hard, still wet from her, but at the moment the idea of sex was nothing more than a distant memory. His eyes darted from Lysa to the door, the door he had closed but not latched.

A novice mistake.

Petyr had been so wrapped up in the idea of having her, of tasting her, that he had not been thinking. And now they would pay dearly for that mistake, unless he managed to correct the situation soon.

Lysa was staring at him, her face twisted in mute horror, the shock of it seeming to rip every conceivable emotion from her. In her fevered state she looked like she was locked in some waking nightmare, her body pressed against the wall, her gaze hard under strands of damp hair.

He had never seen her so silent before.

“Lysa…” Her name was quiet on his lips, his hands deft as they slid the shirt over his back. He could feel Sansa behind him on the bed, though he did not dare turn to look. He didn’t need to, he could well imagine what state she was in. In the strained quiet of their surroundings he could not even hear her breath. He placed himself between the two women, blocking Sansa from view.

 _“I knew._ ” The sound was more of a harsh groan from his dying wife, a last grasp of clarity. Her gaze was locked on his, her eyes shining out of a pallid expression, her mouth twisted in hatred. He could see the rage coiling in her, her broken body attempting to gather the energy to scream, to act, to fight.

Her gaze shifted, her neck craning to get a look at Sansa on the bed. Her eyes were almost completely clouded by now but he knew their focus could still sting. Petyr moved to the side, hoping to block, hoping to have her forget the figure on the bed.

“I never should have taken the whore in. I won’t stand for her here.” She looked back at Petyr then, a challenge, a plea.

He stared her down, closely watched her every movement. It was because of that he was able to see her grab the scissors off the vanity, was able to act before the moon caught the shine of the blades.

He caught her around the waist, the weakened body no match for the poison that was slowly eating away at it. One hand locked about, the other gripped her wrist and pulled it to her side, yet still the weapon did not fall. Turned around he was able to see Sansa then, able to look her in the eyes as he accepted defeat in making her drop the weapon. Lysa moved to lunge forward, the wail in her throat low and inhuman, and Petyr jabbed his fingers against her jaw, pulling and pulling until he heard the break.

 

**[Sansa]**

Sansa pulled the slip over herself, following suit as she watched him fall into his role, recovering much faster from the start than she did. Her heart raced, body going cold with fear. If that same worry was carried by the man he did his best to hide it; his movements calculated and slow and cautious, treating Lysa as delicate prey.

And wasn’t that exactly what she was? His unlucky mark, his meal, his target. He positioned himself between them, eyes locked with his deteriorating bride just as Sansa was able to cover herself with her garment.

She saw the scissors even as he prevented the women from seeing each other, and her first thought was for his safety. He was the nearer party, he was blocking the girl from a scorned woman’s fury. But it didn’t last; her aunt moved in for the attack, her arm jerking out and going in for the kill. Sansa remained still, watching, waiting for it. Perhaps she deserved it.

But then his hand, and her wail, his arm coming around his wife, and his force, and the _snap._

When the woman dropped it was far too slow. Her body seemed to be suspended for a moment, and the girl could have sworn her eyes were playing tricks on her. But time picked up again when she dropped; the thud of her weight hitting wood was deafening in their collective silence, resonating through the room. Her wail seemed to hang on longer than her breath, the air was full of it for long seconds.

And then, nothing.

Sansa lifted herself off the bed with shaking knees, moving to the man, careful to step around the body near her feet. For a moment they both stared at the lifeless form, and Sansa half expected a stirring, a blink from those eyes staring up at nothing. A string of saliva hung from her mouth, death holding no ounce of glamour for poor Lysa Arryn.

She couldn’t look for long. It was too much, too much to think about, and so she pushed it aside, saving the guilt for later. Her hand reached out to his clothed chest, half making sure he wasn’t struck with the makeshift weapon and half to keep herself vertical. And again, it had been for her. He’d stopped her, he’d killed her, all to prevent harm to his foolish, young lover. Trembling arms reached out for him in the shadows. “Are you hurt?” She saw no mark as she looked him over, her fingers lingering where she knew an older wound rested.

Her mouth found his, the lingering adrenaline of fear rushing through her, the kiss a harsh press, a thank you, an escape from what rested at their heels.

 

**[Petyr]**

The blood was pounding in his ears, deafening him. It was almost a welcome hum, closing off all distractions as he stared down at the dead weight before him, the feeling of it still lingering against his skin, and thought about what to do next.

He had mapped everything out, chosen the path most likely to keep their hands clean, and it had fallen apart in the space of a heartbeat. And now they must gather up the pieces and construct a new truth, a new narrative, one which would hopefully lead them to the same conclusion.

His fingers twitched at his side, residual energy coursing through his frame. She was staring up at him with glassy eyes, the air of the room was heavy in his mouth, and all around was silence.

The servants were upstairs, locked away, and any wails that were heard could be excused by the illness. Not a footstep could be heard, save for Sansa’s as she made her way towards him, fingers outstretched as if not believing this was real.

He barely heard her question, so absorbed was he in his thoughts, in more tactile sensations. She didn’t seem to wait for an answer, pressing against him a frame that shuddered in fear or desire or uncertainty, her mouth on his warm and familiar. Petyr didn’t even think of pushing her aside, one hand going to rest on the small of her back, pulling her even closer so that he could feel all of her, the weight of her silk-covered breasts, the jut of her hip, everything that was alive and his.

He gripped her harder than he did before, everything that was pent up coming to ahead with biting lips, with harsh fingers. He gathered the silk in his hand, not caring if the garment ripped when he pivoted her and pressed her, with force, against her vanity.

 

**[Sansa]**

She felt the slip tear but did not hear it; their joined breath heavy and quick while mouths worked. As the fabric ripped in his fingers the garment hitched up and up, bunching around her waist. His hands were harsh and seeking, and the girl could do nothing but return those desperate motions. She clawed into him, one of her arms wrapping around him, his shirt protecting his skin from her digging nails.

Sansa’s back pressed further into the wooden vanity, its mirror sounding a dull hit against the wall from the force of him.

The girl thought he might draw blood, so rough his mouth was, his teeth were, on her own. And wouldn’t that be fitting? It was a murder scene, after all, so oughtn’t there be some of that vital fluid spilled, reminding them of their humanity, of their vulnerability? Reminding them of what they’d done?

She pulled away from him enough to meet his eyes, enough to show him the lust that surely lived in her own. It was so easy to forget all else when he was near, so easy to justify the death around them. Her chest heaved along his sternum as she failed to even out her inhalations. Below her navel that pulsing began anew, the memory of him inside her still so fresh on her mind. And when the girl spoke it was a breathy whisper carried between the small empty space. “I need you.”

 _I need you._ There it was, that open confession of need. Her aunt was dead; if Sansa craned enough she would be able to see her, lying there without breath or pulse. Lysa was a corpse now, and still, as soon as Petyr gripped her, held her, caged her, it didn’t matter. She needed him.

The dampness between her legs still lingered from before, and her free hand moved to loosen his slacks, slithering between them, to find the slickness that remained on him. From between her lips came a moan, low and primal, as her slip’s tear lengthened, as her fingers urged him on.

 

**[Petyr]**

The smell of death, even this new, was unmistakable to him. It clouded his nostrils, mixing with the far sweeter smell of Sansa, the two combined tangling into some dark perfume. It was heady, it sat thick in his mouth, and he wanted nothing more than to devour it.

Sansa was not protesting, far from it. Her body was bucking against his, limbs moving to ensnare him, the heat of before more than rekindled. She was always a greedy little thing but that seemed more true than ever at this moment, his body urging him to take her even as her aunt lingered on the floor, even as the plan lingered in disrepair.

And her words. She didn’t need to speak her need–it was obvious enough from her body, from the fervor in her gaze–but they were more than welcome on the choking air. Petyr felt his shoulders stiffen, his hand reaching down to help her with his trousers, the sounds on his lips guttural.

He had not expected to find her, and he had not expected her to be such a perfect student. All of this came as a welcome surprise, and to have her beg for his cock, beg to be filled of him, when he had just tainted her beyond all reason was certainly something to be pleased about.

He slid inside her easily, seemingly as if nothing had happened. But it did, oh it did, and he would be lying if he said it hadn’t heighten his arousal. To complete this task, to free her, and to watch the impassive look at her eyes, followed by the lust, was almost too much.

Fingers dug into her thigh, pulling her forward as he fucked her roughly. He no longer cared if he left marks. In fact, he more than longed to.

“Little minx.” There was awe in his voice. The hand that had been supporting her neck moved forward, tearing the fabric away from a breast, revealing it to him. He never grew tried of admiring her naked flesh, her perfection, nor did he get tired of wishing to mark it. He pushed forward and took it in his mouth, sucking on the sensitive nub, his hips a harsh roll.

 

**[Sansa]**

The look in his own eyes was enough confirmation for her. He wanted her, even after the plan fell apart. He could run, he could still escape if he wanted; leave the girl behind to be blamed for murder. instead he was caging her, prepared to finish what they’d started before the snap of a neck.

There was something shared, something frantic and perilous and theirs alone. The outside world would not understand, could not understand. It was intangible; the girl didn’t even know if it had a name or a definition. Against him, her mind and body burning at his touch, but it went beyond simple infatuation or lust. She’d been made for him, made for this life. It might have taken long years for her to realise it, to meet him and comprehend exactly what he was, but she could not help but know that she had been led to the estate, to Petyr Baelish.

Her legs spread for him as he moved closer, sinking into her in a single, harsh press. Her back arched, one of her heels digging into him to gain balance as he began a rough pace. And it hurt, his grip on the soft flesh of her thighs, of his unforgiving, quick drives into her, but she wanted it to hurt. She wanted the ache mingled with that throbbing at her core. She wanted to feel what her aunt could no longer know, and the pain somehow made the grief easier to bear.

 _A minx_ , but only for him. Harry was gone from her thoughts entirely, replaced with leaden eyes and their owner, with teeth grazing a nipple. She moaned into the room, and knew she would never tire of his mouth and fingers, of his teasing words. “Horrible man.”

Sansa’s head fell back as his mouth found her breast, one palm planting behind her on the vanity to keep herself up. Her free hand found his lower back, slipping under the cover of his shirt, pressing into him, urging him to move faster, to buck harder, even as the girl’s sighs turned to something near to whines.

 

**[Petyr]**

_Horrible Man._ What should be a curse dripped with nothing but bare lust, with the kind of teasing lilt that had accompanied his own words. It was true, so true, but Petyr felt nothing but pleased with her statement. Oh, he was horrible, he was leading her down a path from which there was no return, and she was following him willingly, entangling herself with him. He was horrible, but he was winning, and he had her.

He had her. At the moment he could not be closer to her, his body taking her with frantic, deep thrusts, his fingers digging into her skin in an effort to keep her still, to keep her his. Not that he truly needed it, for Sansa met his thrusts with wild abandon, her body open and welcoming, the stare in her eyes saying she would not back down.

The flesh between them was slick, coated with sin. In the mirror he could see Lysa just out of frame, a weight in the corner of his eye, and it only increased his desire to claim. To show her, in death, what she could never truly have.

The salt of Sansa’s skin still lingered on his lips, long after he had left her breast marked. He closed their mouths to let her taste, to let her feel the hum that rang through his body, to muffle any cries before they grew too loud.

But he could not stop himself from speaking. Pulling away he slid a hand between them to tease, his mouth brushing against hers in a smirk. His thrusts grew slow, sliding the whole length out of her before driving it in again, letting her truly feel it. Feel what it was to be his. “And you love this.” _You love me._

 

**[Sansa]**

His mouth silenced her, a welcome embrace as the noises she made muffled between them. Oh, and then the man teased, slowing the pace almost cruelly. The slow slide out did nothing to dull the throbbing; it only served to augment that sensation, nerves alighting down to her toes as she curled around him tighter. The way his fingers explored her was tender, a contrast to his biting grip on her thigh, her nub still so sensitive from their unfinished act.

And yes, she did love it. Was there any use denying it now? He could see the need, feel it, smell the desire, taste the sweat on her. She’d been fooling herself at the start that she hated such a man, that she wanted nothing to do with him, that she wanted him gone. From the moment he stood on a hilly perch looking down she was lost. And now? She was tethered to him in a way that she barely understood.

That girl was long gone, replaced with some new creature, her person shifting and changing into something like him. Was it worth it, to sacrifice what was good in her for the wings he granted? Did the devil taste as sweet as he did, feel as perfect as Petyr felt? She was willing to risk it, to take the chance on this horrible man for the life he would give her.

But love, she wasn’t sure if she knew what that felt like anymore. She wasn’t sure if he did either, or if he ever had. Perhaps another time, another day, she might grow bold enough to ask him. For now she was occupied with more pressing matters.

One hand reached for his shirt, then, pulling the fabric, hard, until the buttons began to fail. If she was going to end this affair in shreds, so would he. Sansa separated the material until she was able to press her half-bare chest against his, feeling skin on skin, moaning into his mouth, begging for more. “Please, uncle, fuck me.” What terrible words, and had she ever said them aloud? Her face flushed, her eyes closing in some remnant of shame.

Her hips rocked against his hand, and a sin had never felt so right.

 

**[Petyr]**

He teased her and she reacted just as he had expected, digging into him with need, ripping into his clothing until she could feel the press of his skin on hers. He felt the moan she gave more than he heard it, the guttural sound speaking of a hunger that could very well match his own. Felt more than heard, but he heard every word that then came out of her mouth.

Such wicked, awful words. He was quite certain Sansa had never sworn before she met him and yet here she was, fucking him, a witness to murder, and begging for her ruination with words that should make her blush. It went straight to his prick, this unmistakable evidence of his hand, and made it all but impossible to continue the slow tease.

But he wouldn’t continue like this. No, he would give her the exact kind of defilement she wanted. He would make her _watch._

He pulled away then, sliding out of her wet heat without a word. Before she could protest, before he could feel himself break, he turned her around, hands insistent on her hips, until he had her bent over the vanity. Ripping away the last bit of silk as he shoved himself inside for the third time (still so tight, still so welcoming and perfect), and took her deep with a thick growl.

She was inches from the mirror, her aunt’s gaze still quite visible. Lysa could now watch, her glassy eyes shining in the reflection. And Sansa could now watch as he took her, as he showed her what it meant to be truly wicked, the gaze of the murder victim always in frame.

Such a thought should not have excited him as much as it did.

 

**[Sansa]**

When he pulled out of her, the first thought to enter the girl’s mind was that she’d done something wrong. Confusion reigned, and she nearly spilled out a string of apologies for her awful words, but the man was turning her, pressing her against the harsh wood. Sansa relaxed for a moment; she had done nothing more than spur him on.

But what was he doing? She spoke his name in quietly in question, but she found her answer immediately after; he gripped her harder, filling her in a single thrust. The girl stifled another long moan, matching his own sound. She’d never heard of a woman being taken in such a way, but the new angle, the way he pressed into her, and a new set of sparks coursed through her centre.

The mirror rested just in front of her, and one of her hands planted against it in support when he started his thrusts anew. Her stare lifted to see what the glass showed, and her eyes widened at the sight. She did not know this girl; red hair loose and tangled around a flushed face, her chest exposed to the air. Her reflection’s breath hitched at each undulation, possessing a body taut with want. And no wonder he called her a whore, a minx.

Sansa saw then the crumpled form in the corner. Lysa, or the lifeless body that had once been her aunt, watched from the short distance, a dead witness to their indecency. And she was only dead because of them; their hand dealt that blow, first with poison, next with force. Her form tensed, pulse quickening with something near panic. She found herself sucking in deeper inhalations, long heaving things, and she thought she might be losing control. Her hand pressed harder against the mirror, and eyes wrenched from the body, traveling instead to her lover’s reflection.

It was Petyr that stilled that panic. Her attention moved entirely to him, to his gaze, to his arms holding her. Her mouth went slack, drinking in the lust she saw in him. It was that comfort that urged her on; using her hands as leverage she began to press back into him, meeting him when he bucked. She fixed her stare on him, eager to watch his end, intent on showing him her strength.

 

**[Petyr]**

He had a prime seat for the changes that crossed Sansa’s face, and he could not think of a more exquisite sight. First the shock of the position, surely one she had never heard of before, protests most likely forming on her lips only to be killed by pleasure. Then the fear as her eyes drifted to where he wanted them, to the crumpled body in the corner. Still warm, still in sight, a powerful reminder of what it meant to be on this path. And finally, ecstasy at the sight of him, at the sight of them, coupling in such a way. The girl before him was familiar to him, but surely she had never seen herself in such a way, never thought herself capable of this. It was Petyr’s job to pull her out, to rip away the modesty and the restraint holding her in place, to bare what she was to the world.

It was not a position he took lightly. It was a position he relished.

He was pressed tight against her, his front to her back, one arm locked around her waist while the other gripped the fine wood of the vanity so hard he was afraid it might splinter. No matter; all of this would be left behind soon enough.

He pressed his lips to her neck, pressed his fingers to her center. She was soaked with need and his fingers slid easily against her. He could feel her tense, feel every sharp intake of breath, experience everything he did to her. Not that he needed these signs, for soon enough she was meeting his thrusts. Delicate, inexperienced movements of her hips, a student grasping for approval, a lover giving back.

It was all he needed. The heat of the room, the shock of the kill, the intensity of this act–it all came crashing to a head. Petyr could feel it building, and the hand on the table went to her hair, pulling her head back with a gentle tug, pulling her gaze to his in the mirror.

Their eyes met. He splayed his fingers against her chin, holding her flush face there, devouring her.

“See how lovely?” he managed to rasp out, his tone oddly sentimental. And that was the end. He buried himself between her shoulders as he came, hard, his hands holding her in place to take it all.

 

**[Sansa]**

The short hairs on his chest brushed against her each time he pushed forward, a welcome bristle along her soft skin. The position, despite their lack of connecting mouths or her legs wrapped around him, was strangely intimate. He enveloped her in a way she hadn’t known before, and she bowed and arched to accommodate.

Sansa felt the tug on her hair, her neck elongating as his fingers guided her to look at him through the mirror. And once she met his stare, once she saw his starving eyes, a witness to that unfamiliar high from the recently completely act, and there was nothing that could tear her away. Her breath came in short gasps as she felt his thrusts become erratic, his fingers urgent between her legs.

He filled her deeper, harder, their bodies as flush as possible. He had her entirely, she knew, as pale skin slid against its partner, as her blue gaze did not falter. _See how lovely. Lovely_. And when was the last time anyone had called her lovely? Sansa closed her eyes; she didn’t need to see him to know that he was her world.

His name was a whisper, almost to herself, as if she didn’t want him to hear it.

Her uncle’s breath was a wash on her spine, warm and welcome, when he came. She followed just after, bringing her hand to join his until she found her own release. The girl’s mouth opened in a silent keen, her body going taut as she felt his warmth spill inside of her. She took it gladly, her core pulsing, the waves of her own end coasting over her as her knees nearly gave out.

She turned her neck, then, her mouth searching, tired and open, for his. Not wanting to part with him, not yet, she brought their joined hands up from between her legs, wrapping them around her middle, keeping him there. _A moment longer please_ , her body cried, a second more of that safety, of that connection. The more she stalled him, she reasoned, the longer it would be before they had to deal with the matter at hand.

There was, after all, still a body in the room.

 

**[Petyr]**

The shock that hit his body was like nothing he had experienced with her before. A white heat coursed through him, putting every nerve ending on edge, making him rigid and then limp. His mouth opened but nothing came out; no sound could properly express what he had just felt.

Sansa was pulsating around him, holding him deep within her, draining him. He allowed it, he submitted to it. He held her close, he had her in his sway, and he submitted to her, if only for this moment.

There was something lovely in that.

Her breath was hot on him, her lips searching for a kiss. They met with mouths open, warm and wet, lazy and sated. The shock was still rolling through his body and he stretched and flexed against her, still inside, hoping to feel as much as he could.

Lysa lingered at the edge of the frame, bearing witness. He wanted her to see, wanted her to know what pleasure truly was, wanted her to see the look on his face after he had taken a woman he really wanted. She had taken so much from him over the years, had dug herself in with sharp nails and lies, that it was only proper she be served the same until the end. And that she knew, in death, where things truly lied.

But he did not wish to think of her for long. She was nothing now, a body to be disposed of, a memory to be forgotten.

His breathing slowed and he slid out, regretfully. He did so slow, feeling the slickness he left her with. His hand went to where he once was, curled against he surely swollen lips, teasing her light, feeling what he had left her with. She was flushed, she was stained, she was half-naked with her torn slip. Her eyes were shining at him in the mirror and he wanted nothing more than to take her again and again.

But that could not be. He pulled back gently, allowing her to steady herself on the vanity, making himself presentable as he moved to the body.

“You are going to help me push her off the stairs.” As simple as that.

 

**[Sansa]**

He slid out of her, and she felt that ache anew between her legs. This had been more raw, more forceful, than what she was accustomed to. His fingers found her, teasing the tender place where the throbbing had barely subsided, and the girl let out something near to a soft whimper, unsure of whether the sensation was good or bad.

And then he was gone. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at the chill of the room, at the absence of his cover. Seed cooled as it ran down her thighs, a lewd souvenir from their act. Her slip hung loose around her middle, and she gave herself one last look in the mirror, at that unknown creature with her hair and her eyes, before she turned away.

His words were a cavalier command as they stared at the corpse, as reality slowly sunk in again, causing her chest to tighten. “The stairs?” He’d planned their way out already, a solution to their reckless folly. “An accident then? A fall?”

Sansa nodded, seeing the reason in his decision. And what else could she do? It was an accident or their open guilt; there would be no other way to fix it. She’d made her choice when she kissed him outside of the house, the darkness had been a witness to their contract. She slid off the remnants of the slip and moved to collect an intact article of clothing, evening out her breathing, attempting to remain calm.

A nightgown slowly donned, covering some of the marks that would surely turn to bruises by morning, and she moved to his side, making herself stare down at her aunt. _You did this, you killed her_ , a voice in her head accused.

It wasn’t as clean of a break as poison, but the girl saw the cleverness in it. Lysa had been ill, feverish, delusional, and the staff had witnessed it firsthand. It would be an easy enough tale to believe; the woman wandered out, lost her footing, tumbled down the hard steps while the rest of the house slept. Simple, believable.

Her words were small when she spoke to the dead thing in the room. “Goodbye, Aunt Lysa.” For a long moment, she felt very much like a child again. They looked down at body, and Sansa’s hand searched for him, fingers curling around his as she prepared herself to finish it.

 

**[Petyr]**

He marked her out of the corner of his eye, held her in the reflection of the glass as she began to reconstruct herself. Sansa allowed pleasure to linger just long enough before donning a fresh piece of clothing, before beginning the process of returning to the role of an innocent. A necessary metamorphosis, and despite all that lay before him Petyr could not help but take a moment to admire.

She cloaked herself in virginal white, questions on her lips, but yet still she joined him. For guidance, for companionship, for confirmation that this was indeed right, he did not know. He took comfort in the simple fact that she joined him, that she twined her fingers with his, that she stood rigid tall at his side.

And still he watched. She said goodbye to her aunt as a child might and Petyr might have felt a pang of guilt if this was not Lysa, if this was not Sansa, if he did not hold in his heart the knowledge of what the girl truly was. In that light her words seemed trivial things to him, things expected to be said. The casting away of what was old without regret.

Petyr brought their hands to his lips and kissed hers, lingering over the smooth skin. He did not allow himself to become once more lost in her, the task at hand too important to push off for much longer. Too enticing as well, for he could not wait to see how this would play out in the morning, almost as much as he could not wait to have Sansa once more. To sit at breakfast, grief-stricken, and insist that he must move on, must make the finances right, before coming up to her room? It was simply too much.

“Go out in the hall and check if there are others around. Be as silent as you can. Then help me.” The house around them still slept, they seemed the only two alive, but one must never be too sure.

With that he began to correct his own appearance, before rolling up his sleeves to begin the process of lifting the body.

 

**[Sansa]**

His lips ran across her fingers; that contact, perhaps more than their just completed coupling, did much to soothe the girl’s heavy heart. The meeting was brief, however, too brief; they had work to do before they could rest, and the man would not be distracted.

Sansa did as she was told, stepping slowly across the room and opening the door. One last look back to the man, lingering a second more, and the girl was out into the hall. Bare feet were silent on hard wood as her eyes scanned the great house. She knew by now which boards would creak; her path veered slightly to avoid each one, her neck craning to and fro, wary of any sound. It was a sigh of relief when she finally peered down the steps to find no restless or wandering servants, no unwanted intruders lurking about.

More quickly then her exit she scurried back to him, keeping the door ajar and ready as she whispered “empty” into the air. The man was ready, then, his clothes adjusted, sleeves casually rolled up. There was no mark of worry on his face; his calm demeanour remained, and Sansa could not help to wonder if he’d done this sort of thing before.

The thought did not unsettle her as much as it should have.

What _did_ unsettle her was the task at hand. She realised as he moved to the head of the corpse that she had never touched a dead body before. Her stomach knotted and twisted as she found her aunt’s feet, the difference between simple poison and this becoming more evident, more harrowing.

But she could not back away now, as tempting as it was. She bent, warm fingers curling around cold skin, and Sansa nearly gasped at how chilled the lifeless form already was. Blue eyes travelled the length of her; the splayed arms, the scissors just out of reach from her hand, those same scissors that might have been embedded into the girl’s soft neck if Petyr had not stopped it.

 _For her._ This was for her. It had been Lysa or her niece in that moment, and the man had made his choice. Sansa met that green and gray stare, and together they lifted.

 

**[Petyr]**

Once alone he could not help himself. He devoured every inch of the dead body, his eyes taking note of everything he had caused, his skin tingling with a sensation not unlike the lust that had just overtaken him. The situations were remarkably the same, for it was by his hand that Lysa lay in a heap at his feet and it was by his hand that Sansa had aided him. Of course for now that aid came only in the form of her silence and in helping him dispose of the remains, but in time she would feel death under her own palms. She would feel it, she would smile at him, she would take him–he could not think of a better future.

But he was losing sight of the here and now. Sansa returned, her face somewhat paler than usual but determined, and he had to pull himself away from the broken thing at his feet, from the memory of the snap of bone.

Petyr nodded and they went about their tasks, Sansa lifting the feet as he took the shoulders. In death Lysa was the useless weight she was in life, and her body seemed unwilling to corporate. He had a moment to reflect upon this, on the stubborn nature of bodies, of the way they seemed to use their weight to remain tied to where they were. But still they were dead, lingering close to the stage of rotting, and nothing they could do could save them from that fate. After a few seconds of readjusting they were able to maneuver her into the hallway, to the stairs.

Petyr couldn’t watch Sansa as much as he wanted, as the corridor was darker then the room (perfect for the tale they would weave) but he could hear her low breathing, he could see the sway of her nightgown every so often. In just a few minutes they would be done; in just a few minutes they would be entangled closer then ever.

At the head of the stairs he gave a signal and that was it. Release, a horrid sound as she fell, useless bones cracking in the void.

He could not take his gaze from her, watching her tumble away from him, her eyes so soft, so pathetic. His chest felt tight, ready to burst. With a sudden move he reached for Sansa, gripped her hand tightly, his fingers shaking against hers.

His mouth seemed to fluctuate between a smile and a sharp line of determination. It was done, it was done, it was done.

And every task that lay before them now was pure excitement. No more of this mess, no more of this strain.

“Are you ready?” His voice was harsh and he took her in fully for the first time since they entered the hall. She was lovely in the dark, lovely and quick and his.

“Go to your room. Settle in. I think you are done for tonight.”

 

**[Sansa]**

She was heavy, much heavier than the girl had anticipated. Her arms ached at the weight as they moved, legs carrying her quickly through the darkness until they reached their grim destination. She waited for his direction before together they initiated her fall, Sansa letting her relative go with trembling fingers.

It was grotesque, the sounds her dead aunt made as she fell. Her body contorted in obscene directions, no synapses firing or reflexes working to aid and protect her descent. Sansa winced, her jaw set hard and shoulder tense as she watched the distance between Lysa and the floor shorten. She was forgetting to breath as she watched, her legs weakening as her stomach turned, but still she could not, would not, look away.

And then, his hand. Petyr gripped her tightly, grounding her, keeping her from breaking apart.

The last step, and with a sickly thud she met the end of her journey. A profound silence enveloped them, shrouding them as she clutched him back, until the man at last found the words to tear into the quiet. She squeezed his hand as she nodded, leaving his hold as she backed away, hurrying to her room lest anyone hear the commotion and decide to peer out.

She wondered how long the man would stay there.


	13. Chapter 13

**[Sansa]**

Sansa buried herself under the sheets, as if the covering could protect her from the world, from the guilt. The snapping of bones, the dull thud of her body on wood, echoed in her ears, a lullaby that would grant her no slumber.

Sleep wouldn’t take her, despite her tired and sore body crying out for relief. Her entire being buzzed, adrenaline and worry amalgamating, keeping her mind alert behind drooping eyes. She wished he was near to comfort her, to reassure her that what they did was for the best. She would see him tomorrow, she told herself, wrapping her arms around her middle. Tomorrow.

She watched the sun rise from her bed, time passing terribly slowly, the seconds barely creeping along. And finally, the scream rang out through her closed door, a young female by the sound of it, likely a servant making the expected discovery. She pretended not to hear it, waiting instead until a maid burst through her doorway, pressing frenzied hands against her shoulders to rouse her from her feigned sleep.

She reached the stairs and peered down to see a small crowd surrounding the corpse. Her hand reached for the railing, bracing herself while the maid grabbed at her free arm to keep her steady. The grief-struck niece sunk to the floor, pitied looks rising up from below, and she hoped Petyr would be proud.

**[Petyr]**

He felt light.

His limbs ached gloriously, the kind of pain that only comes with relief. He had never felt more alert, more giddy, yet he knew well enough that melancholy would soon overtake him, once the excitement of the plan, the act, dissipated. There would be others of course, and he would have the pleasure of seeing Sansa shadow his actions, but there would never be another Lysa.

Perhaps he should simply take comfort in the fact that the weight was lifted.

Back in the sick room he could not rest. He paced and smoked, the window open to the dead summer air. He felt alive, his body poised to act but for now stuck in stasis. And he felt the pang of the loss of Sansa keenly–she was feet away and yet he could not touch her, could not share and plot and exalt.

He mussed up his appearance before dawn and poured himself a stiff drink so that he would be deep asleep when the servants came to call.

His sleep was a fog killed by screams, but he did not stir until he was shaken out of his chair by a frantic girl. He slid into his role, confusion leading to fear leading to horror as he was drawn into the hall, forced to look at the thing that had been his wife. He could feel his blood drain, the frantic movements of his head making everything a blur. Everything but Sansa.

She stood out, curled over herself on the floor, a rag of a girl with tears streaming down her face. He never wanted her more.

There would be time for that later, when the show was done. First he had to retreat to the sickroom and retch in the basin, the liquor on his empty stomach doing the work. The maids hovered about, wondering what was to be done.

“Call the undertaker.” His hands gripped the porcelain so hard it was a wonder it didn’t shatter. He stared down at the sick, at the foul brown liquid, and breathed it in deeply, hoping it would affect his pallor more. “And take my niece away. She should not have to look at that.”

He washed his mouth out with water then, and cleaned away the mess.

 

**[Sansa]**

She felt herself being lifted, carried off and away from the scene. Her body relaxed, allowing them to move her, to guide her back to her own room. Reassuring sounds were whispered into her ear by the servants, a kindness she might have been grateful for if the accident had truly been that- an accident. But in truth they meant nothing, nothing at all to her. Her tear-streaked face feigned appreciation at their words as she thanked them; even in grief she would still be polite.

They dressed her, removing that white nightgown and fitting her with something more appropriate. Wearing a dark dress, sitting beside the vanity, they left her then, promising to bring a meal up in the afternoon, promising her that it would be alright. Promising that her uncle would take care of her.

She could have laughed. Oh yes, her uncle would take care of her.

After an hour or so she ventured out, peering through on the outskirts of the goings-on in the home. Far enough away she would not be shooed; and she was able to watch the undertaker come and go with the body. A weight lifted off her chest to know that she was truly gone, and Sansa was free, observing the aftermath.

Professional men in expensive looking suits came and went, meeting with the new owner of the estate while the house staff prepared for a funeral. Petyr Baelish was the perfect picture of a distraught widower, but he commanded the helm with deft fingers and clear intent. She was entranced, watching him work, his orders ringing out with the pain of loss.

Sansa alone could see that glint in his eye.

Eventually she meandered back to her own room, eager to rest, her body sore and limbs heavy. The moment she stepped in she saw her folly; an empty room, pair of scissors still staring up at her from the floor, and the girl would find no sleep in her bed.

Her feet carried her instead to a different location, a room down the hall, a room she’d never been in. She pressed the door open; she knew it would be empty with her uncle’s busy day, and eyes found the soft-looking sheets. Sansa sunk into the bed without a second thought, brushing her nose against his pillow, a deep breath taking in the lingering scent of him. Wrapping herself up, she could almost pretend he was holding her.

In his room, curled in the blankets, she finally, blissfully, slept.

 

**[Petyr]**

There was much to be done, papers to be signed and grief to be expressed. Petyr kept himself numb throughout the day, indulging in a bit too much liquor to help ease along that impression. And who could blame him? His wife was dead, his childhood love was gone. A fall, a broken neck, poor thing.

The lie was bought and soon enough Lysa would be buried. Soon enough the pressure of death would be lifted, and they could move on.

But for now it rested about the house, choking the air. The late summer warmth offered little relief, no breeze fluttered through the halls to give them rest. Not until the night, he suspected, when a chill of autumn would fill the air. Then it would feel like a proper death.

Sansa lingered still on the edges of his vision. She looked paler than ever in black, weak and weary but with a grace that he could not help but admire. He held the image of her in his mind as he signed documents, as he sent word to Harrold that they must meet to postpone the blessed event, as he drank.

And so he was completely restrained, the joy he felt buried under so much play-acting. It was not helped by the fact that everyone seemed drawn in by the charade, that everyone hovered about him with expressions of grief. Perhaps that would fade away in coming days, if suspicion took root. Perhaps then he would be back on his feet, plotting and alive.

The hours lingered on. Petyr barely touched his food and soon enough locked himself in the study to pace and wait. It wasn’t until the house grew still that he allowed himself to go upstairs, lingering over the place she was found with a morbid fascination.

His feet took him to the murder scene–not only to find her but to revel in the victory once more. Sansa did not seem to feel the same way, for the room was empty save a weak weapon on the floor.

The pang he felt was truly deep, leaving his heart with the peculiar feeling of emptiness that the death should have caused. A thousand bad ideas flooded his mind, all centered on the idea that Sansa had had enough, that she was gone. That she had seen the mask slip and the threads he thought connected them had broken.

 _Gone._ She had left him, hollowing him out in her wake.

With quick feet he retreated back to his rooms, not knowing what his goal was. Maybe he meant to grab a light and venture outside, hoping to find her wandering the grounds? The fear coursed though him, and he felt a rush for the first thing since they were drawn apart that morning.

And that is where he found her, curled up in his bed, waiting.

The rush did not die when the emptiness was filled. His face felt warm, a smile breaking through the death. Shoes off he went to rest beside her, pulling her towards him so that he could feel her heartbeat, twisting her hair around his fingers, confirming that she was his.

He whispered her name. It felt odd to say something infused with real emotion.

 

**[Sansa]**

She didn’t know how long she slept, only that she woke to her name spoken softly, the mattress shifting to support another. It was dark when she opened her eyes, shadows surrounding the pair. The girl found comfort in the darkness; he wouldn’t be able to see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks or the guilt writ plain on her face. A hint of strong drink wafted to her, and she wondered how much the man had imbibed during the preparations.

He pulled her close and she curled into him, enjoying the warmth that radiated from him, enjoying his smell, and the way his hands felt intertwining with her loose hair. Her arms bent, fitting around him as their bodies met, and she realised just how poor of a substitute the sheets had been as a source of comfort. Him, real and tangible and holding her, was better than any drink, than any medication, to soothe her.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“ _and shouldn’t have what?_ Wandered into his bed like a desperate creature? The man beside her had done the same, finding his way to her own room so many times before. But still, she felt like some sort of intruder. “I should have asked. I just couldn’t sleep there.”

Would he sense the weakness in her admission, and fault her for it? Would Petyr harbour it in his mind, filing it away until the consequences outweighed the cost of keeping her? Perhaps he would deem her too young, too emotional, too burdensome for the life he led. These considerations were certainly new, and valid. After all, look at what had happened to his wife.

She couldn’t help it, she wasn’t as unfeeling as she tried to be, and perhaps his enveloping hold, the contentment she found in him, loosed the candour from her chest. “Please don’t make me sleep there tonight.” Her hold tightened on him, and whether it was attributed to desire, comfort or simply attached to her plea she wasn’t sure. Sansa looked away from him, burying her head against his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart, a sign that the day had not taken the same toll on him that it had to her.

She resolved to be stronger, to do better, next time.

 

**[Petyr]**

The girl clutched him close, buried herself against him, and pleaded for some sort of comfort in a low voice. How strange it felt to be the one someone came to for protection, especially after the events of the previous night, but Petyr did not allow himself to linger over the queerness of it for long. He let his body relax under hers, allowed her to curl the way she wished, listened intently to the meaning behind her words.

Perhaps it was the drink slowing him but he felt heavy, oddly relaxed under her, the buzz of his mind quieted. They were alone, truly alone, in the house for the first time, the burdensome presence of his wife gone, the servants nothing.

Sansa spoke of weakness, and perhaps he should see it that way–see it as a foolish need for solace–but he found that he could not. Not with her nestled against him in this way, not with the scent of her in his air, not with the skill that he had seen in her fresh in his mind.

It was skill though, wasn’t it? The nagging feeling returned, the idea that it was not an act, that Sansa would not be a part of this world for long. He tried to push it aside with the fact that she was here, now, that she had sought him out in a need for security despite what she had seen him do. That indicated to him a level of participation in the acts, and he knew well enough there would be little chance of her turning back now.

She had tasted something few had, she had sold herself for the promise of something more, of something greater. Her eyes had watched and she was still at his side.

He was fairly certain she could not see his smile at the idea of she would become.

‘Of course not.” He had not expected to spend this night alone, had been aching to hold her for hours now. He didn’t speak of seeking her out himself, however, did not wish her to see her act as something she must not do.

“I will hold you for as long as you wish.” The statement was muttered against her hair, a promise from a man not known to keep his word. He had every intent of living up to this one, however. He had no desire to ever have her torn from him.

“You did well.” These words were stronger, heavy with the desire to approve.

 

**[Sansa]**

As long as she wished? If it were her decision entirely, she wouldn’t ever let him go. Still, she smiled into his shirt when he spoke the words; the night would have to suffice. Her own room seemed so far away, so harrowing, that perhaps she could barter a second night as well, or a third, if she proved to be an appealing enough bedmate.

Her smile faded at the compliment as her neck craned until she could see his eyes. She looked for a lie in them, for a sign that his compliment was simply an empty reassurance serving to placate. Sansa found nothing there to betray him; perhaps he was a better liar than she knew, or maybe the drink made his tongue a bit looser. She was close enough to him to share his breath when she asked the question, unable to still the words from spilling off her tongue. “Do you truly think so?” Forever needing to please, forever needing that reassurance, she watched him.

Each exhale on his part was met with her own inhalation, as if she aimed to breathe him in, as if she might gain some of his strength in that way. And maybe she did; maybe being so close to him made her brave. The Sansa before, the one who sat mutely at her mother’s funeral, would never have made it this far. She was growing, turning into something else, she could feel it in her muscles and bones, she could feel it in her mind.

And it was his hand that led her on and on.

Slowly, delicately, she pressed forward, until more than breaths were joined. Her mouth found his lower lip, a soft caress, her nose just brushing his. She counted several seconds before pulling away an inch. “You must be so tired.” Small fingers slid against his spine, feeling each vertebra.

Another chaste kiss, and he was so warm, so welcoming. “You’ve had such a long, tragic day.” _And no one saw that look in your eye, no one but me._  
“What can I do to aid you, dear uncle?”

 

**[Petyr]**

Her presence was lulling him into a state of bliss, the first such bit of relaxation he had had in what felt like days. And perhaps it was foolish, to let his guard down when the end had still not arrived, when the will had not been read and the funds given, but his body was weak and she was warm. Petyr could not help himself from dancing at the edge of indulgence, from running fingertips over smooth skin and inhaling her scent. And when she kissed him, gently, feeling out his reaction, he could do nothing else but kiss back.

This was not the way she would have reacted when they had met. He remembered that girl, shyly holding his hand, looking about with fear. He suspected she knew what she was capable of but hesitated, afraid of taking that path without a guide. His coming must have been a blessing.

Sansa had been so frightened and now she was here, stretched beside him in his bed, loosely clad in her slip. Her eyes were searching his, knowing, her mouth was giving voice to wicked thoughts. She had witnessed something terrible and yet she was here, her eyes betraying none of that, her whole being begging for connection. Even in his tired state he could not help himself from responding, and truly who could blame him? To have such a girl beside her, to hear such things, begged for reaction. His fingers curled into her hip and he moaned low in his throat as he bit at her lip, returning her volley.

She had asked him what it was she could do. And he could tell her, of course. He could take the lead and direct her in the act as he always did (and as he suspected he might do for a long time). Perhaps it was simply his tired state that made another idea seem so appealing, but perhaps it was a desire to see his creation fully blossom. After what had transpired, the crack and the weight and the act next to the body, he wanted to see where she was now.

He slid his hand down from her waist, cupping her bottom with one palm, pulling her tight against him. His eyes reflected her gaze, the sly gleam. “I think I shall leave that to my dear niece to decide.” He gave the phrase as much wicked heat as he could. “She has been so attentive.”

 

**[Sansa]**

She gripped him tighter as he felt the curve of flesh below her spine, her body arching into his, her uncle’s words doing nothing to stop the warmth in her cheeks, the throbbing beginning between her legs at his touch. But his words told a different story, allowing her to make the decision. Was that what he wanted, for her to do the leading? For a moment she stalled, arms and legs halting against him, running through her options, discovering there was really only one choice.

_I can be attentive._

A gentle, tentative press and the man was led onto his back, Sansa finding her way to straddle him. Did it seem clumsy to him? It was a novice set of movements, an attempt to gain and hold some ounce of control over the man normally so content to guide. Her knees planted on the bed on either side of him, shivering arms trying to conceal the nervous energy that came with the newness of it.

She leaned down, her moves cautious and wandering. It was slow, and curious, and the girl realised this was the first occasion that seemed to have no urgency surrounding it; there was no rush to begin or finish, no aunt lurking to worry about. They had _time._

That thought was a relief, a weight off her chest. With him so near, she felt strangely safe from the guilt. He drew it from her, replacing it with something like himself. She wondered what he received in return.

The girl kissed him, barely a peck, a tease, before moving to his jaw, his neck, her lips enjoying the shadow of short hairs that prickled her. Fingers ran along his shirt, unbuttoning the top two fastenings, her mouth following that trail, tasting him along the way.

She paused; she could see it then, faintly in the darkness. His old, jagged injury was coming into view, just where her mouth was heading. Blue flitted up as she stilled her journey down, watching his reaction. Her eyes were wide, questioning as her lips neared that glossy skin. “Is this okay?” It was more breath than voice, as if the ghost of whatever caused that wound might hear. Her hips were a slow tease, then, a calm rocking against his clothed body, her slip rising up her thighs.

 

**[Petyr]**

He could feel his chest tighten upon reflex, his body following swiftly. He had been open, allowed himself to be guided by her, watched her movements with a curious and proud eye, but now she was perched on the edge of something else, her eyes gazing up at him with a question, her hips making it hard to concentrate.

The flesh was long dead and yet he for years felt it more keenly than he did before he was marked. It burned a line down his chest, it choked him with its weight. Every so often Petyr would glance down expecting to find it reopened. Decades later he could still see himself, clutching at it with bloodied hands, the silver of the dagger blinding his eye, Cat’s voice deafening his ears. The whole thing was a blur save for that, for the pain and the red and the shame.

It had been another man who received that blow, a boy really. His head had been full of mindless things and he had not yet come into contact with the brute force of the world, had not yet learned how to bob and weave about and keep himself safe. Sometimes he was almost thankful for the scar, for the remainder of what he once was and never shall be again.

No, he was nothing like the boy who had gained the scar. After all he had Sansa, here in his bed, her lips inches from it and her eyes asking for his approval. He had her under hand, he could taste her flesh, and soon enough he would feast upon it. He would bury himself in the waves of her hair, make her cry out his name, have her hold him close and ask him to consume her.

He had it all and yet he paused, his mouth dry. Just the briefest of moments but he knew she noted it, knew that she counted in her mind the seconds between her question and his reply.

“Yes.” It sickened him, to see her so close to it, but she had him pinned and under the baser needs of the flesh. She was on top of him, soft and fragrant and _his his his_ , and his cock wanted nothing more than to let her do as she pleased.

 

**[Sansa]**

For a moment she thought he was going to stop her, prevent her from finishing her work. Her body tensed, preparing to leave her perch, ready to go back and back before she’d ruined it. But then he gave consent, and hadn’t she done something similar not so long ago? Sansa pulled away enough to continue prying buttons apart, no longer watching her hands; her eyes were on his.

It was the closest thing to pain she ever saw in a man so controlled, when she neared that glossy skin, and it wasn’t the first time the girl had noticed. She would never forget that moment in the grove, her exploring hand at his collar, his recoil, his rejection.

She had scars herself, small marks from childhood injuries, foolish games with Arya or Robb ending in bloodied knees and elbows. But this, she knew, was different. As she exposed his chest further, reaching the end of his shirt and spreading it wide, she could not help but stare. Any prior glimpse of the mark had been quick, their mutual rush preventing a proper look, and now she was able to see it in full. This could not be attributed to an accident or a minor scrape; she could hardly comprehend how someone might survive a wound as vast as this. He’d been cut in half, it seemed, pulled apart right down his torso. She could almost see it, she could almost feel it.

Sansa couldn’t say what compelled her next, but she found herself bending again, leaning until she could plant a kiss to the middle of his sternum, as if pressing to the pinkish flesh might fix it, might make it better. And up her body slid, small meetings on his skin until she found his mouth again, begging his to open for her, begging for a response.

A million questions she was too afraid to ask rushed through her mind, and perhaps that’s what made her want to fill the silence, her lips still brushing against him as she spoke. “Does it hurt?” Surely it mustn’t bother him any longer, but the girl asked anyway. And then: “I’m sorry.” _For asking, for being weak, for whatever hurt you._

 

**[Sansa]**

Petyr could feel his skin prick despite the warmth that was overtaking him, his whole body poised on the edge of fleeing. He was wracked with paradoxes, his cock begging him to stay put, not to push her away, his heart feeling every glance she threw his way, his mind mocking him for being so weak.

She was being gentle and it was a nightmare, yet he found he could not say anything. He had seen the look she gave him in the grove when he had pushed her away from this intimacy and he had no desire to see a repeat of that. Not now, not after everything that had been done, not after their path had been laid out for them in such a perfect manner. He could not lose her, not after the performance he had seen today.

And so he focused on her without focusing on her, allowing his gaze to cloud as she kissed the dead flesh, the remnant of the past. He tried to keep the memories from his mind lest they make him sick, lest they anger him and upset this night of celebration. For that is what it should be, a night for the future, not one in which he was forced to remember the boy he was before.

Her mouth found his and he was so thankful that she could no longer see it.

And then she spoke, her voice carrying in the silence, even muffled against his lips. The only thing that kept his heart from not pounding was practice; the only reason he allowed such questions was because this was Sansa.

“It’s dead.” A simple statement for a simple thing. There was no class in the wound so why should there be in his words?

Her other words cut deeper. He found he could not help himself from reaching her gaze then, from trying to understand her motivation. He saw sincerity there, a heart and softness that seemed to be ingrained in the girl. One act of murder, witnessed, did not see to be enough to kill it; he would remember that for the future. The skill he had seen in her was there but unpolished, still bogged down by this heart.

(There was a part of him, though, that did not wish to kill it entirely, that wanted that heart preserved but only for himself. That part of best not lingered upon).

His hand slid up to coil his fingers with hers and press her against the ruined flesh. To make her feel, to make her understand what it was that lay between them.

“This is what the world does to people like us.” His lips were brushing hers, his words low but hard. “It’s a reminder, that I have no place unless I make it.”

 

**[Sansa]**

_Dead._ And that seemed to be as much as he would say on the matter. She was ruining it, with her words and her curiosity and her foolishness. She could see her touch, her stare only served to push him further away, away, away. The wound parted them, the distance growing without pause, until a vast, unknown and unseen space rested between their bodies. The girl wanted it gone, that emptiness settling there; she wanted to be near to him again. She wanted to forget it all.

Petyr spoke, and she thought it might be a lesson, something he must have learned the hard way, long ago. She held no hope she would glean the cause of the injury; he carried it deep within him, the roots old and intricate, and she wondered how much of him today was born from it.

There was a word that caught her attention entirely, however, one that stood out even as her hand was led to rest against the cursed, jagged skin, even as his lips brushed hers. “Us.” It sounded heavy on her tongue. Surely he’d spoken of them in such a way before, but his tone resonated in her, as if something recondite and strong in him recognised something similar in her.

She pushed away, one palm planted on his chest as leverage, looking down to him as her spine straightened. The girl wondered if he regretted it now, letting her move them, allowing her control. If he did, she resolved to make it up to him. Slowly, fingers found the hem of her slip, lifting it up to her stomach, her ribs, and finally over her head. For once she did not attempt to cover herself, to shield her body from him in the shy way she had most every time before. Another clumsy set of movements and her underwear was pulled aside as well, the girl returning to her perch atop him.

He was exposed, and now she was as well. _Us._

Her hand took his, leading it up to cup a breast, urging him to feel her, to feel the beat of her heart underneath, to know that she belonged entirely to him. And didn’t he know he had a place already? The girl had made a place for him, had torn way the brush and thorns inside herself to allow him through. Or perhaps he’d carved the path himself; she couldn’t be certain anymore, and it didn’t matter; it was done.


	14. Chapter 14

**[Petyr]**

He spoke and the air returned to the same deafening silence, the warm and fragrant air of the room heavy in his mouth. He saw in Sansa’s face the desire to question, to push and unravel things that he had shoved aside years ago, but she tempered those notions. Instead she shifted above him, rose herself to her full height, and stripped herself bare. Her long limbs made her delicate movements, cast in shadow, even lovelier to behold, and the grace with which she did so seemed to signal to him that the matter was now at rest.

In time, he was certain, things would grow more complicated. But for now he wanted to relax, he wanted nothing more than to feel her close and needy, wanted nothing more than to see the woman she was growing into.

He let his hand be led, cupped her breast as directed. The skin was familiar under his palm but nonetheless remarkable, smooth and as pale as could be. He admired it, allowed himself to feel the full weight of it, to press against her chest and feel the resonance of her heart. Petyr was careful not to do anything that she did not direct him to but he could not help himself from indulging, taking her nipple between two fingers and bringing it to a peak.

The fingers of his other hand danced along her hip, lightly grazing the skin there. His eyes took in the whole of her, nude and unashamed, her skin aglow in the low light. She was pale perfection here, the swell of her breast leading to the smoothest dip to her waist, which then flared perfectly into soft hips. Centered there was the tuft of auburn that lay between her legs, protecting the gift she had granted him again and again.

Such a contrast it was to the ruin of his chest but Petyr did not feel unworthy. She looked at him with heat in her gaze and he _knew_ that no other man would see her as this. The creature before him, smooth and newly polished, was simply his.

He rolled his hips, brushing his clothed cock against her backside, angling for more even in his trapped state. More friction, more attention, more freedom, anything. He wanted to hear her gasp, wanted to feel her clench around him and moan his name, wanted to see her smile. Confirmation, connection.

 

**[Sansa]**

His fingers teased at her chest, and the girl arched into his touch, her pelvis rocking back against his own undulation. She nearly broke then, prepared to submit to him, to let him do what he pleased. But no, her eyes closed for a long moment, calming herself. She would show him she could do this; she could lead.

She was learning from the best, after all.

There was no rush, but she was too eager; she wanted to feel him against her fully. A hand moved to his slacks, taking her time, grazing him through the material. She did not break contact with his eyes, watching them darken in the same way hers surely were, a confirmation that this need was mutual, that she hadn’t ruined it with her curiosity, with her stare.

She leaned again, her lips caressing his jaw, his ear, while her hips slid up and down gently. The girl wasn’t giving either of them enough friction, her body lifting to free him from the last pieces of clothing between them until she could feel him entirely. Fingers grasped him loosely, remembering the way he’d showed her to stroke him, but her pace was slower, crueler.

Her open mouth found his neck, coercing him, and she wondered how long the man would last beneath her, how long he could go before taking over. Her tongue darted out to taste the salt on his skin, her free palm planted on his chest to steady herself.

And what would he like her to say? His hand was on her hip, and she was certain he was itching for more. Her eyes closed, lips still lingering on his skin as her cheeks warmed at the filthy thought that surfaced. “Petyr…” The name was a half sigh, and the girl found herself desperate even as she kept control. Her hips bucked while her fingers worked on him, her heartbeat growing rapid.

The words were low, and she tried her best to hide the tremble in her voice. “Do you want to feel how much I need you?” Digits left him, reaching instead for his free hand, guiding it between her legs, to the wetness there.

 

**[Petyr]**

He had seen the flash in her eyes and knew exactly what it was he was in for. Not that he had expected any less than a tease when he gave her the reins; he wanted it, in fact. Wanted nothing more than to see what she would do with a little bit of power and control, wanted to see how long he could last before he felt the need the wrench it back.

Sansa moved her hips slowly over him, her fingers lightly and swiftly freeing him from the confines. She wrapped her digits about his prick and he let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, at the warmth that came with being held in her palm, at the thick, enticing knowledge of what it was he had done to her.

His eyes opened at the feel of her mouth against his jaw, at the heat that came with her blush. He looked down at her then and despite the fact that he did not have a good vantage point to read her expression he could very well tell her desire. Anything that had been done to her had been done with her consent, and despite the lingering edges of shyness she was enjoying this trip through the dark as much as him. To corrupt, and to have the object of the corruption make it through sharpened, changed–it was more than he could ask for.

His body was abuzz with sensation, his mind somewhat clouded by lust, but still he heard her words. Low, shaky, amateur but truthful, they hit him deep in the core and drew from him a low, instinctive moan. His cock in her palm seemed to swell with the shake that overtook his body and he let his other hand be led without protest.

She drew him between her legs and Petyr curled his fingers to cover her lips. She was practically dripping down into his palm and it took nothing but the lightest of touches to coat his fingertips. And that is what he gave her, the lightest of touches. He teased her with fingertips, lightly running them up and down her slit, not penetrating even in the slightest.

“Little whore.” There was nothing but affection in his tone. “Are you always so wet and needy?” Underneath, controlled, he wanted nothing more than to have her blush.

 

**[Sansa]**

_Little whore_ , he said, and there were a dozen names she could give back to him. Teasing lover, mentor, family…murderer. They all wove a strange and terrible tale, and so perhaps the words he said to her were more fitting than any others; theirs was not a relationship born from anything considered typical. It was twisted and perplexing, but it was hers.

She moved against his fingers, a low moan into his neck as she searched for more pressure, knowing he would not provide it unless she asked, unless she begged. And she would not beg, not yet, she resolved, even as he spoke of neediness, even as she murmured an agreement into his skin. It was true; she needed him, and the press of him against her gave away his identical sentiment.

His comment shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did, it always did. It caused that warmth below her navel to radiate out, a shudder through her frame. She wondered if she could do the same to him; she’d pulled a moan from the man already with her words, and like a starved girl she wanted more.

Her breasts grazed his chest as she rocked against him, and her hands drew away entirely. One planted firmly on the bed next to him while the other ran through the grey at his temple. His hair was soft, perfectly trimmed, and she could not help but admire it as she pulled up from his neck, face to face with him again. Oh, and the hunger that lived there, and was there anyone else in the world like him? She thought not, and she smiled as she planned what she would say next, as she considered him from above.

“Do you think it would feel nice?” Her mouth pressed the side of his own, a brief meeting. “If you were inside me?” Her own tongue was shaming her; the only thing keeping her steady, keeping her from losing control was the waiting. She wanted to see what he would do in response; she wanted to see him falter the way he’d made her break so many times before.

The girl used her leverage atop him, pressing her hips down in a lewd grind against his fingers, against his hardness.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her fingers left him all at once, cool air overtaking the warmth of grip, and Petyr had to force himself to still. This was all part of the tease, he knew, and despite the pain that radiated through his body at the loss of her touch he could not let her win just yet. Their previous encounters had been hurried affairs, and he had not yet had a chance to experience with her the luxury of a prolonged act.

He received some solace in the press of her against him, at her wicked words dripping from her not-so innocent lips, at the small amount of friction he got as she ground herself against his hand and his cock like she was in heat. Momentary releases, they were, appetizers before the main course.

Her lips were hot near his, and he could not hold himself back from some indulgence for much longer. His free hand was back at her hip, pushing her up and taking her mouth briefly before pulling away to sweep his gaze over her form. Still she gave him pause, still he could not quite believe his good fortune. She was beyond compare, pale and blushing with the edge that came from being freshly stained. She had an air of innocence that covered the truth like a fine lace; surely anyone would be beyond scandalized to see her like this. Lips red, eyes shining, movements the very definition of impure–and looking at him with a depth to her gaze that he could not possibly describe. Wanting to please him, wishing to be pleased by him, a minx and a pupil and his. He wanted nothing more than to dress her in white and have her in the dinning room for all to see, wanted nothing more than to watch the horror in Harry’s eyes when she gave herself to him with practiced ease.

Petyr moved his hand from her hip and back up to a breast, squeezing and drawing her gaze back on him, “I don’t have to think.” With his other hand he began to do more than tease, entering her with two fingers, curling and pulling her against him. “The question is, do you need to feel me?”

His cock was trapped between her thigh and his stomach, hot and leaking fluid from the tip. If they drew this out much longer he would spill himself between them. Petyr had to force himself from lingering over the image of her, dipping her fingers in the come, in order to keep his concentration.

Minx indeed.

 

**[Sansa]**

He was losing his hold as much as she was; the girl could see the signs even in her own frenzy. His respirations were becoming more rapid, his forehead gaining a sheen of sweat; these tells only made it more difficult for her to stay afloat. He moved her hands along her, cupping her, allowing himself to feel her without any guidance on her part. It wasn’t unwelcome; she had been hoping for his uninhibited touch, she’d been hungry for it at a near constant rate since the night in the grove. She hoped she would always want it, need it.

The threads holding her together were growing taut; Petyr pulled at them with an expert hand, his index and middle pressing into her, teasing her enough to force her hips into a chase, seeking more. Still, it wasn’t what she needed, and yes, she needed him. His eyes ran down her body, and there were worse things in the world than to break for him.

Her fingers found his wrist, pulling him away and guiding him out of her. The girl told herself she was still in control, still atop him as she found the hardness between them, something more satisfying to replace his digits. Angling him at her entrance she leaned down enough to meet his mouth, a deep, clumsy, needy kiss before she fell apart.

She sunk onto him, the ache inside her from the roughness of the night before remembered all too suddenly. Remembering the harsh wood of the vanity, the feel of his chest along her spine, and it was the sweetest, cruelest sort of hurt. A moan, half from the soreness and half from relief, escaped her; the girl’s mouth went slack, her breath heavy against his own as she arched.

Her hips flush to his, and she could not help but wonder why she’d been so keen to prolong the moment. Her knees spread further, until their bodies could be no closer, and she stilled, relishing the feeling, the connection. Eyes closing, her fingers explored his body, his hair, his neck, settling her palm on his chest.

Without his fingers curling inside her, without the teasing, she found it easier to concentrate. Her hips circled slowly, testing the waters, her mouth tilting against his, and maybe she was still in control. On the other hand, maybe she never had the lead to begin with.

 

**[Petyr]**

The only thing sweeter than watching her take control was the moment at which it shattered. There had been confidence in her movements–tinged with hesitation but still there–and she had watched him devour her with his eyes and hands with an unmistakable sense of pride. It had inflamed him further, to have this sweet girl atop him, owning the power that she did have and yet still gazing at him for approval, for connection, for a hidden sort of guidance.

It lasted for as long as it could, this play, and then she reverted fully into his needful role. Sansa took him in, kissing him with hunger as she did so, her body pausing simply to enjoy the sensation. Petyr wrapped himself about her, stained fingers on her back, his other palm splayed against her backside as she began to move her hips.

All of it done without prompting, all of it done to fulfill this sort of primal need that had been awakened. He clutched her to his chest and marveled at the sight of her. She was so utterly wanton right now, bare and unashamed and desperate for him, and could not help himself from imagining the shock on her family’s face if they saw her now, debasing herself with him.

He pulled at her slightly so that she faced him, so that he could see every movement of her face as she fucked him slowly. He met the movements of her hips with increasingly deeper thrusts, gripped her tight, and took her.

The breath shared between them was shallow, as if they were both suffocating against each other. He could taste her sweat on his lips, the saltiness of her; he could focus on little else but her gaze and the heat of her. In the shadows he mapped every change of expression, every second of pleasure that passed across her.

“Ruined little thing.” He could not help himself nor hold his tongue, he simply had to give voice to some of the thoughts that ran through his mind. “What shall I do with you?”

 

**[Sansa]**

His arms came around her, and she felt an odd sort of comfort amongst the pleasure. This man, she knew, would keep her safe. He had proven it already, hadn’t he? A bribery, a threat, a murder; her debt to him was adding up day by day. And more than that, he wanted her, and he was the only one in the world who could make that claim. She was wanted, and she wanted him in return.

He was meeting her at each undulation, slow and deep, and she made no effort to increase the pace. It was a small torture to keep that halted rhythm; her entire body was warm and alight, eager for more and faster. It didn’t matter; watching him, teasing him, was its own intoxication. She was still learning him, what he liked, which noises meant she was doing very well. And she was still learning herself; it took a moment to find the angle that allowed her motions to hit the place that throbbed above where they joined. She very nearly asked for his fingers, then, but stilled her tongue. If she begged, and if he did as she asked, she would utterly lost in him.

And she wished to be strong, if only for a moment more. She could be like him, she could show him.

Sansa groaned into his mouth after he spoke the words; there was nothing to be done to stop the sound. She _was_ ruined, the truth was plain in her actions, in her desperation. Her body and mind were both consumed with him, and not simply for the freedom he offered; it went beyond that, digging inside her, holding her, keeping her. As if to show him, her hips lifted, sliding him almost entirely out of her before pressing back down.

Her question was little more than a breath, but he would have no trouble hearing it in the quiet room. “What would you like to do with me?” Whether it was genuine curiosity or fuel for his lust, for her lust, the girl could not be certain. Her pelvis began that slow circling again, forcing herself to keep slow despite the burning need to lose herself against him.

 

**[Petyr]**

Underneath her soft breasts he could feel the beat of her heart. The rapid hammering of it said that the slow pace she was keeping them at was formed by restraint, by the desire to pull this out and show her control. He could not help but admire that.

His words affected her, and Petyr would never grow tired of witnessing the effect such teasing statements had on the girl. She clenched about him ever so slightly, her hips canting forward for more, the desire radiating against his mouth. Need, glorious and unbridled, was practically dripping off of her.

His own body was as needful as hers, and he was certain she could feel his heart just as well, though he did a better job of reigning it in. He was slipping, however, and he knew she could tell. She could feel it in the way his nails dug into her backside, hear it in the inhuman moan she dragged from him when she slid out and back. There was no doubt that he held the upper hand in this, and there was no doubt that he didn’t want her completely.

She was begging him to speak–her words might not have been meant to be a beg but that came through clearly in her tone, in the way she moved against him–and Petyr had to pause for a moment, remember to restrain himself, remind himself not to scare her off.

It was just a moment; that was all he could afford. Before he knew it his lips were parted and he pushed up swiftly, taking her deeply, emphasizing his control before pulling back once more, letting her feel the loss and the gain.

“I want you marked. I want you to wear me under your clothes at all times.” His free hand curled behind her neck, binding her to him. “I want to devour you in front of an audience. I want to watch you dance and flirt and seduce and still come back to me.”

Just the thought of fucking her in front of some moneyed sod was enough to almost push him over the edge. The fingers at her neck flicked down to where they were joined, toying her, begging her to come against him.

“Would you like that, sweetling?”

 

**[Sansa]**

This shared dance was growing unruly, despite her efforts to calm herself, and despite his own tempered movements. Yes, she could see him faltering. His nails were nearly drawing blood against her soft flesh, and the poor girl might have wanted that skin broken; she pressed further into it like a wild thing, her own hand firm against his chest. And oh, when the man pushed himself up with force, driving fully into her, she could not prevent that keening sound from leaving her open mouth.

After that, there was no such thing as control. Her hips moved faster, her mind foggy with the chase, with the building sensation inside her that left no room for contest.

Marked, he wanted her, and she was marked already. Her hips showed the faint reminders of his fingers gripping her against a vanity. The breast he’d held carried a sensitive bruise as well, from where teeth and tongue had enveloped her. The girl was a display, an open canvass that he painted as he pleased, and she let him. She would learn to leave her own marks on him, her own reminders, in time.

He gave his answer, and the girl could barely consider his words fully; his fingers moving between her legs made concentrating on anything else much too difficult. But he’d asked her a question, and the girl was nothing if not polite. “Come back to you.” The girl parroted his own words in agreement, her eyes heavy with need, her voice unsteady. She was drunk without a drop of wine, her body lose and taut all at once on her perch atop him, and the only things keeping her steady were his hands on her, his words to keep her wanting more and more. “Always back to you.” She was near crazed, as she shuddered, nearing her end, grinding against his with abandon, the pace no longer dictated by control. Her movements were erratic, the muscles in her thighs stretched and sore, but she barely noticed it as her pelvic rocked against his fingers, his cock.

A few final presses, his digits working at her, and the girl reached her peak. The delay, the tease, the position, afforded a compounded sensation; her entire form shook, fingers and toes feeling that wash that radiated out from her core. It was a strangled cry that met his breath, her eyes forced shut, blinded with the feel of him, her uncle, her teacher, her lover.

 

**[Petyr]**

It was hard to keep his focus under these circumstances, when his senses were overwhelmed by the sounds and smells and taste of pure lust, when his body was aching for release, but Petyr was able to succeed in keeping her within his vision. With every encounter he learned her body more, and at every encounter he remained transfixed by her, especially when she broke and submitted to the pleasure building inside. No man had ever experienced this, and he doubted that if she were to take other partners they would not be granted such a sight. This vulnerability, this submission, was his alone and he savored it, eyes wide open.

In that respect this encounter was no different, but there was a particular edge to it that had not be present before. As Sansa gave in, her muscles growing tight, her body trembling over his cock, it was with a force he had not see in her before. The shock that overtook her was a sight to behold, her face twisted in the ecstasy that could only come about when barriers had begun to crack.

The effect her movements had on him was second only to her words. With those simple phrases she had done more than give herself to him for these acts, she had bound herself to him in all respects. She had chosen him, fully and completely, and now here was her pledge. Petyr knew he would feel the movement of her hips over his cock in the days to come, and he knew just as well that he would be hearing those words for years.

She was clenching him, her cunt gripping at his cock like a hungry mouth, the words were pounding against his skull and it was enough. While she twisted and convulsed against him he dug his nails in and stretched back, elongating his neck and coming with a moan that he strangled in his throat. It left him breathless, and for a moment everything was dark.

In the aftermath he lay underneath, the limbs liquid, staring up at her like he had never seen her before.

 

**[Sansa]**

The pulsing of her climax was still flowing through her limbs when he tensed, his fingers a relentless grip as he held her in place, as he filled her, defiled her, made her his own. And had she ever witnessed him in such a state? The girl thought not as she watched him, still unbalanced from her own peak, and she found herself captivated by his groan, his utter loss of inhibition. Until this moment she had not been privy to seeing such a sight so plainly; his head had been buried against her neck in most of their prior acts, hidden from her eyes. She understood now why he enjoyed teasing her so much; to see someone break against her was intoxicating, it was powerful.

She did not break his gaze when they began to even their breathing; she watched him below, certain her own eyes mirrored his heady expression. Something had changed, and she wasn’t sure exactly what it was. He was still inside of her, the warm liquid beginning to cool between her legs as she tried to name what exactly had shifted between them.She wondered, strangely, staring down at him, if this was what devotion felt like. He might have been worshipping her; his eyes telling the tale his words did not. And Sansa had been lost in him for some time now, hopelessly, entirely.

It would not do to dwell on it, she decided; whatever it was they had was not something so easily named or quantified.

A tired, sated sigh, and the girl’s chest came to rest fully on his, one hand reaching up to thread into that hair, no longer so perfectly coiffed. Her mouth found his, her head angling just enough to leave sleepy, half-meetings against his lips. “I can stay with you tonight?” She remembered his words, but Sansa was slowly returning to herself. Now that her body was sated the worry edged and seeped through.

Her hips angled and he slid out of her, their bodies coated in each other. He was warm against her, and she found herself unwilling to leave her position. The thought of falling asleep next to him, of waking up in his bed, was an idea as harrowing as it was pleasing; there was still that risk of being found by a servant, there was a risk he would not want her there.

 

**[Petyr]**

The effect her orgasm had on her could only be matched by the look of her as she fell into the afterglow. Her skin had a warmth to it, the flush of the act creating a woman that he had not seen before. Her movements were loose, sated things, her body uncoiling around him but holding him inside for as long as she could. The desire to savor this act was as pure in her as it was in him, and he could not possibly deny her this.

All of their previous couplings had been cut short, but now they had no such constraint. Now they could simply enjoy the presence of each other, close and entwined with shared sins.

Sansa slid from him when they could remain joined no longer and lay at his side. He could see his seed shining against her in the faint light that came from the windows, could feel what she left him with. A sticky remainder, faint and obscene, something to linger over. Again he thought of the risks that came with such an act, again he felt the lurid pleasure that came with ignoring such a thing.

He felt her words more than he heard them, the vibrations ringing through him. Her nails left faint scratches against is scalp, sending slight jolts of pleasure through his body, bits of shock that went straight to his cock.

What she asked he should not agree to, not now when all was at stake. Yet their doors had locks and he simply could not bear the idea of parting. It seemed such a foolish thing; they seemed to be beyond the opinions of the low. To wake up with her, after all that had passed, seemed a complete and fitting reward. In that moment he could picture himself, sleepy but awake, taking her as soon as her eyes fluttered open.

“You have the key to your lock? Secure your door, then come back.” The words of a boy, newly enamored with this act.

 

**[Sansa]**

The thought of leaving his warmth, his comfort, was almost a distressing concept to the girl. Still, it was the practical thing to do, and she would sleep easier knowing that her own door was locked. She nodded into his skin before lifting herself away from him, planting a soft kiss to the side of his mouth as she moved. Her back to him, she gathered her slip and pulled it over herself, her body still covered in him. One last look to the man before she carefully turned the knob and peered through the crack, making sure the hall was clear before she exited.

She’d nearly made it to her door when footsteps stilled her feet. At the sound of her name, a female’s voice from across the hall, she stopped completely, a slow turn. It was her maid, scurrying quickly toward her, dressed in her nightclothes, asking her what she was doing wandering around the house so late.

The other girl was young, and so perhaps she didn’t see the signs on her, perhaps she didn’t see the lingering sin. Sansa’s hair was surely in disarray, her body carrying that scent of sweat and sex, her slip hastily pulled on. She wondered what would happen if the truth came out, if her inappropriate relationship was discovered; in the end, she had no real desire to find out.

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought a glass of milk might help…” She put on her best tired, mourning face for the servant, and hoped the girl was too tired to notice any faults in the lie. The maid seemed to believe her, giving Sansa a pitying look, the poor girl had lost her aunt. Offering to accompany her downstairs, Sansa began to walk, away from her door, away from her uncle.

After making her way to the kitchen with an escort, the girl found herself back in her own room with a warmed mug of milk. Would it be safe to go back to Petyr, and risk being caught again? Could she chance it? She thought of what he would do in this situation, and settled for foregoing his hold, his arms wrapped around her, for the safer option.

She slid into the cold bed, her eyes fixing on the spot where her aunt had fallen with a lifeless thud, and she knew she would get no rest.

 

**[Petyr]**

She pulled away, rising to dress herself for the short walk back, and he watched her intently, his eyes lingering over every shadow and curve. He had bedded beautiful women before but none quite like this, none that drew his attention so. Barely dressed, her eyes shining out from a flushed face at him, her lips turned up in a mirror of slyness, he could not think of a better sight. His body was still heavy, limbs still shaking with the after effects of the act, this mind clouded with the promise of more. He wanted to sleep, wanted nothing more than to curl against her and sleep for days.

She left with the softest sound and that was it.

Petyr could hear some soft murmurs in the hall (-long after she had left his door, thankfully) followed by footsteps. Going and then coming soon after, then going again after the door had opened and shut once more. Then silence; the whole of the household felt like a held breath, everything in a state of stasis.

He focused his gaze on the handle, waiting for it to turn to signal her arrival. He could still feel her against his skin, her heat, the way she smiled into his kiss, but it was diminishing by the second. Relaxation was replaced with anxiety, this dread that he knew very well to be foolish and yet he found himself victim to. He knew that she had been intercepted, he had most of those facts at hand, and he also knew that the best course of action would be the separate for the night. It simply would not do to risk being caught and he knew that. The logical side of him was proud of her for not taking that risk, for exercising caution where it was needed.

But it was night and his body was worn from fucking and the logical side of him was not what took hold.

If she had spurned him she would certainly not be the first to do so, though she had gone much farther in terms of driving the knife than her mother ever did. He could not help himself from lingering on the scenario that, left alone at the scene of the crime, she was castigating herself for ever allowing him to touch her, to defile her. What he had seen in her during that act, what he had felt in her at his words told him that was not true but during the long and sleepless night it festered. She did not return because she had seen what he had done to her. She was in there now, cleansing herself of him.

He did not go to her. In that sense, the logical side won out.

Night slid into day. There would be no formal meal during this time of morning, and he would take his food in his room if he wanted any at all. That was not his concern as the shadows lifted. All he wanted then was to see if she came to him.


	15. Chapter 15

**[Sansa]**

Sleep failed her, her eyes staring at the floor for most of the night, the girl’s body crying out for rest. _How pathetic_ , she chastised herself, that she was so weak, that she could not tear her eyes from that spot on the ground. More than once she sat up, almost willing to risk the short trek to his room. She could almost feel his chest warm against her back, his arms around her waist and his slow breath a wash along her neck.

Instead, she settled for her own cool bed, the memory of her aunt’s lifeless eyes a constant in her mind. Some small part of her hoped her own door would open, that he would seek her out, guide her back to his room with a gentle hand. As the night went on that hope swiftly disappeared; she’d been the one to leave him, after all.

Sansa watched as the sun drifted in through the window, and the room seemed somehow less ominous in the light. She stayed abed until she heard the servants hurrying around below, likely making preparations for the approaching funeral. It wasn’t until dawn had fully come and gone that she pried herself from the bed, her eyes and body heavy. She dressed, some dark grey garment suitable for a grieving niece, and crept down the stairs and into the dining area.

On a small tray she set a simple breakfast, tea and warm bread with butter and honey, and made her way back up the stairs, assuring the serving staff that the meal would reach its destination. _No need to bother him, I’ll bring it to him_ , she’s heard herself say. Such a thoughtful niece.

She found the door unlocked, and the girl wondered if he’d waited for her, if he’d missed her in the same way she missed him. He was sitting on one of the chairs, dressed for the day but making no move to leave his quarters. Sansa moved toward him, setting the tray on the table next to his work. “I brought you something to eat.” A small smile, not her most genuine; they both knew the meal was an excuse.

And maybe she was too tired to care then, but her body moved, leading her to him until she’d made a perch on his lap. Arms found his shoulders, her nose brushing against his neck, breathing in that scent she’d missed through the night. “There was a maid…” The words were mumbled into his skin at her attempt at an explanation, her body already relaxing after a night of tension.

 

**[Petyr]**

At some point before dawn fully broke sleep found him. Petyr could not be truly sure for how long but he had the perception of lost time, the unique weariness that came with sleep found and shortened. When the first bird sounded outside his window, when the sky turned to a soft ash, he knew any hope of finding more rest that night had been lost.

She still lingered about the bed. He could still practically feel her in his arms, her sweet and soft weight. The feel of her hair against his skin, the way her fingers had touched the edges of his wound without prying too much inside. The way she had found the balance from holding back and giving in, the sweet sounds that had left her lips as they had played their game of control. In an ideal world she would be here now, curled against him as the light found them, her breathing even as he kissed her awake, her submission true and well-won.

That was not the world they had. His stomach was still twisted with those late-night fears, now hardened with daylight. He knew the truth, held it strong in his head, and yet the dead wound was still a burning reminder of what he truly was. The boy had not been fully killed; he still lay there poisoning him.

He rose and cleaned himself, doing away with all traces of her with a heavy hand. Dressed as sharp as he could in his mourning clothes he turned himself to the papers to littered the table near the window. Work would be a good escape, the finances of the estate reminding him what exactly was at stake. Lost in numbers he would have no time to worry about weakness.

He wasn’t certain how much time had passed until she arrived at his door. She had come to him, just as he wanted, but the bitter thread in him kept him from rising to the entrance.

Her smile was sheepish, and she surprised him by nestling herself into his lap with such familiarity. With instinct his hands curled about her waist to hold her close, fingers threading themselves in the familiar pattern along her spine. Her words were a heavy breath against his neck and he knew they were true, knew that she had done the right thing, even as his heart clenched with the memory of her absence.

“Was it an easy night, sweetling?” He needed to hear it.

 

**[Sansa]**

He shifted to accommodate her, and she hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath, waiting for his response, until that relieved exhale fell against his skin. Even in their familiarity with each others bodies, tastes, smells, she moved with caution in all other aspects of him. So much of her uncle remained a mystery, and she was eager to discover more, to piece together fragments of him, to know him.

Now that they’d settled into each other she was content. The girl could fall asleep in this way, his fingers feeling along her vertebrae, his smell clean and inviting. Had anyone else known this man in such a way? Surely Lysa would not have been welcome on his lap, but she assumed there had been other women, other infatuations. Other marks. Maybe one day she would ask, or maybe she didn’t want to know, in the end.

These speculations ran silently through her mind, nearly leading her into a doze, until the man spoke. “No.” He would know that already, that her night had been a restless one. The cause for her to beg to sleep in his bed, near to him, was already apparent enough. “I couldn’t sleep, not with-” The sentence hung unfinished, an unruly set of words, a flaw.

She pulled back enough to face him, and could he see the weakness there, the same weakness she’d tried to kill through the night? Sansa let the words, the obvious explanation, fall from her tongue. “She was my family.” Those who could still boast that privilege, of blood relation, were dwindling faster each day it seemed. And worse, she’d been a party to it.

The girl wondered, not for the first time, what her mother would say. There was not much love between those sisters; Sansa and Ayra surely held a stronger bond, but her family had always put a great emphasis on blood, on kin. It was better then, that her parents were gone, that they could not see her in that moment, seeking approval from a dangerous man.

The girl searched his face, the lines beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, his nose, his unsmiling mouth she was all too familiar with. He needed to see her answer as well as hear it; yes, Lysa had been her family, but Sansa had chosen him instead. “I’ll do better next time.” _I’ll be stronger._ She wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or for herself.

 

**[Petyr]**

He wasn’t quite ready for the reaction that overtook him at her words. In the past few days he had seen her bind herself to him, had watched her take her pleasure when she should have been mourning, had listened to her promise such wicked things, and now she spoke of _family._ The word seemed odd in her mouth, the remnant of another girl, and she looked at him almost in fear. It was to be expected; she was not as skilled at deadening her past self as he was.

And yet the reaction that overtook him was powerful. A sickness gripped him, laid thick in his throat. The idea that he had been mistaken lay heavy on his head, and that was not an idea he ever wished to entertain. To think that the promise he had seen in her, the way in which he had been able to direct and polish her, was just an illusion was inconceivable. The idea that he had been wrong about her, that her ties to the morality that kept her bound were too strong and that he would have to go on alone, was simply dreadful.

Sansa sensed this disapproval. Petyr hid it as well as he could, tempering himself to keep from gripping her too tight, to keep his face even, but she could read that well enough. When she looked at him the need for approval was again present and he could sense nothing more in her than the desire to correct herself and make this right. He next words were a balm and as the grip loosened around his heart he had felt just a twinge of sympathy. The girl had spent the night at a murder scene, she was young and needed his guidance. Should he not be more forgiving?

“You did well.” He repeated his words from last night and they still remained true. He had been more than impressed with how she had handled herself at the time; the trick was to keep that detachment throughout the coming days.

A hand left her back, curling under her chin to hold her gaze to his. He smiled then, something soft, hopefully to ease her back to him. “Am I not your family?” After all, he could not think of a person he was so bound to, for good or for ill.

 

**[Sansa]**

She would be lying to herself if she said his words did not help; his reinforcement of a job well done seemed to lighten her shoulders, only to be burdened again when he spoke of family.

The girl could not deny it; she was still drawn to that old, dead life, to her parents and siblings. Tiny strings in her heart pulled, the last reminders inside her that she was not meant to walk this treacherous path. Those tethers must be cut, she knew, in order to be truly free. The girl would need to pry out those lingering shards that dug into her skin, that made it hard to step forward.

Because, and she was desperate to make Petyr know this: she did intend to walk where he led.

He held her face, his smile warm, but Sansa could see something not so warm behind his eyes. This man did not hold to any code or morals like her father had, nor did he possess that sense of duty her mother carried. He was not wild like her sister, or noble the way Robb had been. But it didn’t bother her, and that knowledge surprised her. Then again, she was discovering that she did not always carry those familial traits either. She’d been made for something different, she knew that now.

And so Sansa swallowed as she nodded, her gaze not faltering from his. Petyr was her family now, and she knew that his would be a harder bind to break.

After a moment the girl spoke again, eager to be done with it, that conversation. Truthfully, the only thing she wanted was to go back to the night before, rested and sated against him, the look in his eyes the closest thing to affection she knew from him. “Are you hungry?” Her eyes looked down as fingers played with his collar, and she could not help but think that his mourning clothes suited him well. Her other hand settled at the nape of his neck, digits slowly grazing the point at which his hair began to grow. “Your tea will be getting cold.” Of course she did not move from his lap; she wouldn’t, not until he wanted her away. They’d missed a night of being near to each other, and perhaps the girl was simply making up for lost time.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her touch was light, a teasing reminder of the night before, but it helped to deaden some of the fears that had overtaken him. The girl was not yet skilled enough at the art of flirtation as deception (nor would she be until he taught her how to ensnare a man) for her to use it on him. No, there was something truthful in her movements, in the way she curled up against him. She knew she had this weakness inside her and seemed to determined to snuff it out, with his help.

And really, was there anything more he could ask for in a pupil?

The thought of food had not crossed his mind in the hours since he had risen, so lost was he in numbers and the ghost of her. And now she was here in his lap, offering him tea, such a pleasant domestic scene that he could have laughed.

He had hungered ever since he had entered this house, and despite how often he had indulged he had never quieted that need. Nor, did he suspect, he ever would.

The fingers at her chin brushed across her lips, tracing the memory of his claim. “I suppose I should, considering you were so dutiful to bring it to me.” He moved to take a pinch of bread, chewing on without pressing her off his lap. The warmth of her was all too pleasant; he could very well get used to this.

“She’ll be buried soon, and then the estate will be settled.” His words were matter-of-fact, as if he was merely discussing a summer afternoon’s activities.”And then I think we should leave–I think I should take you to school, should I not?” A cover, but not really, for what better education could she ever hope for?

“I hope you will not disapprove with me ending your engagement.” _It would give me the utmost pleasure._

 

**[Sansa]**

He ate, taking small bites of the bread. She’d never known him to eat much, especially for breakfast, but it pleased her to see him take the offered food. It was strangely intimate, set atop his lap, watching him chew. Somehow it seemed more private a moment than their evening spent with fingers sliding along skin and bodies joined.

“To school?” The girl considered it, and of course they needed a reason to leave, fabricated or no. And she was itching now to make that escape; there was nothing appealing in this home any longer, save the man in front of her. Even the grounds, the ponds and trees, would soon lose the enchantment they once had to her; she’d broken that spell with a murder. “Yes, I think I’d like that.” She was eager, of course, to learn anything she could.

The girl had nearly forgotten about Harry in the wake of her aunt’s demise. There were flowers in the foyer sent by the boy with a message of condolences, and surely he would attend the coming funeral. She looked to the hand at his collar, and the ring that still rested heavy on her finger. It weighed on her, yes, but it was also nothing, nothing at all. She ceased her grazing motions on his neck, moving until she could pull the ring off entirely, leaning back to set it on the table next to the tray.

The only thing that remained was a small mark where the trinket had been. She was unadorned entirely now, again a blank slate. The girl placed her cleansed hand near his collarbone, a sly smile playing at her lips. “He won’t be happy.” She made no mention of her own feelings on the matter; the discarded circle would give him her answer. Perhaps if she asked nicely Petyr would buy her a pretty necklace or bracelet to replace the vile ring.

Sansa looked to the man’s own hand now free of bread, to his own third finger, before reaching to hold it, toying with the reminder of his marriage, his dead wife. She wondered how long he would wear it, but did not ask. “I trust you’ll find me a more suitable match.” Her eyes lifted to his. “Won’t you?”

 

**[Petyr]**

Watching her discard the boy’s ring caused him to feel a pull deep inside, an excitement very near the edge of arousal. That she did so with such an easy hand, with such a light smile, only added to the weight of the feeling. He suspected the Sansa of even a year ago would be more hesitant about breaking off such a good match. She would certainly be more frightened of making her way in the world without such security, and he had seen the trail ends of that personality when first he arrived. Now it seemed gone for good, forgotten alongside the ring on the table.

“No, I suspect not. Losing you would be a pain to any man.” He spoke the truth there, and without thinking his grip on her tightened just a bit. He would not be as easily cast aside as Harry; this undefinable thing that they had would not be erased.

Sansa then toyed with the own symbol of his marriage, a forgotten thing that he would have to wear for as long as the charade played out. Petyr wondered if he saw a flash of jealousy in her pretty brow, though perhaps that was merely residual feelings brought up by the mention of the boy. He must be careful, must learn to temper those fears now, or he would not be able to accompany her as she seduced a mark.

It was all a game, after all (all expect this, some buried part of himself hoped).

“Oh yes. I only have your best interests at heart.” He took another piece of bread, dipped it in honey, and then presented it before her lips. It was golden, sticky, brushing against the mouth that occasionally dripped with vulgar words, that he had ruined beyond repair. Ruined, and made completely irresistible.

“Men with more money than sense, who will give all their worth to you for nothing.” He would watch her charm and swindle, see he decked in the finery that she deserved. Watch her strain for his approval as she let these men have their fleeting, false pleasures.

“But I suppose those are really matches, are they?” He pressed the food forward, let her lips linger over his fingers.

 

**[Sansa]**

Losing her would be a pain to any man, he said, and she wondered if he included himself in his reasoning. She kept her eyes on him, as if focusing enough would give her access to his true thoughts. His hold grew a little firmer around her, and she did not miss it, just as he would surely not miss the way her body relaxed into it. The moment was an easy one, casual despite the topic of discussion, despite the recent death surrounding the house.

The girl watched him bring the honeyed bread between them, and was surprised to find him guiding it not to his lips but to hers. She opened for him, taking the offering into her mouth. Her tongue grazed his fingers lightly, an attempt at a tease, before slowly letting him go. Chewing as she listened, the girl considered his words, considered her own best interests.

A delicate swallow and she spoke again. “Money only goes so far.” She found herself saying the words, and oddly, meaning them. A girl raised in wealth, who had spent a life clinging to a dream of an affluent, handsome husband, was now seeing the world, seeing herself, in a rather different way. And what did she want, really? She was so quick to cast aside that ring, that certain and secure future. Was she willing to part with that fantasy, that safety, for a path wrought with danger?

_For him._

That foolish constricting in her chest, that unseen binding to him, was answer enough for her. “I’d rather have a clever man.” One hand slipped back to his neck again, a gentle brushing of fingers along his skin.

Her dreams of some blonde prince had been pushed aside, and what exactly had replaced them? “Perhaps with green eyes, although I quite like grey as well.” She’d never decided what colour his own were; the light of the day gave them more of a mossy hue, but she’d seen them shadowed as well. It was silly, how the girl blushed in that moment. The clumsy flirting, she knew, should come long before the more intimate territories they’d conquered.

“Do you think you can find me such a man?” A bit of honey lingered on her lower lip, and her free hand came up, her thumb brushing along it.

 

**[Petyr]**

It was so curious a sight to see her like this, returning to the blushes and coyness of her youth after what he had seen in her. He had soiled her in hundreds of different ways, have made her agree to awful things, had made her an accomplice in the most frightful of acts. And here she was, demure as a virgin, flirting in the most awkward manner.

All he could think, beyond the natural attraction that never truly went away, was how good at this she would be.

And mixed in there was more than a bit of ego. And should he not feel that? The idea of having her in his lap, making sly remarks about his eyes and licking honey from her lips was simply not something he would have imagined for himself just last year. Even after all he had gathered, the path he had set himself on, the idea that a woman from her blood, a woman like her would debase herself with him was truly something

“Perhaps. If you’re very good.” The intrusion of the teacher role added a weight to his voice, an extra coil of illicitness. Flashes of her, begging and submitting and giving back, flooded his mind. He shifted slightly in his seat.

Another piece of bread, this time for himself, as he hoped to calm himself down.

“After the funeral I think we should remain for a month or so, to settle things up and to not have it look so sudden.” A return to business, though perhaps too late. “The estate will be mine, but I will appoint persons to oversee it–a distant cousin, perhaps. The real gain will be in the wealth. Can you see yourself in furs, Sansa?”

It would be enough to start their trip, enough to give them some pleasure in the short run. But Petyr knew it would not be enough, and even if it would he suspected she would soon find herself as addicted to the thrill of the conquest as him.

 

**[Sansa]**

Perhaps she should have expected that sort of response by now, but she averted his eyes nonetheless. One day she would learn how to shift back and forth, from lover to teacher to family, the way he did. One day she would be good, she told herself.

“A month.” The girl couldn’t help the frown, that downward pull of her lips. “I thought it would be sooner…” Now she was faced with a month of sleeping in that room, charged with staring at that scene each night, or sneaking off to Petyr’s bed if he allowed her. If the latter was the case, she saw well enough the evening before what risk came with that. And so it was just more and more time, more opportunity for doubt to plant itself.

Sansa thought to her restless night curled up alone, to her tired eyes, and sighed as she nodded. It made sense to wait, and the reward at the end would be worth it, she hoped.

But she could not forget that it was also a month of Harry wondering why she’d spurned his advances, his proposal. Sansa pried herself off of his lap, then, her feet once again finding the ground. She turned from him to look back at the ring still settled next to the tray. Her fingertip slid against the thing, and she knew she’d have to slip it on again before she left the room. “When should I tell him? Should I wait?” It might be better to tell him later as opposed to sooner, to keep the charade going a few weeks longer before they rushed off.

He spoke of wealth, and could she truly see herself in furs? Long ago, maybe, as a younger girl it would have been easy to picture. Fantasies such as those hadn’t been present in a long while, but they surfaced again at his words. The thought of her dressed in finery, Petyr’s arm taking her own, served to lighten her mood.

She turned back to him, a tiny smile returned, and she leaned in just a bit, lowering her voice. “I don’t know, really; what do you think?” She did not have many nice things anymore, save a brooch that had recently come into her possession. “Do you think I might have a lovely dress as well?”

 

**[Petyr]**

A month was a long time to ask, especially of someone who had been so recently presented with a way out, but she seemed to suppress the worry on her face quickly enough. To Petyr it was nothing at all–they needed time to gather their things, time to make plans and break them. And the anticipation would only serve to make their escape that much sweeter. It was advisable, smart, and she needed to see that.

That she agreed warmed his mood, but it was dashed again by her sudden move, by her mention of the boy’s name. A foolish display of emotion on his part, for she did not speak with lingering affection or lust. She spoke of how the break should happen, and he should not focus on the way in which her fingers rested on the ring, nor on the clenching low in his gut.

He straightened and took a sip of tea in order to center himself. It was close to cold by now, but no matter. “The engagement was done without your consent. It is not your responsibility to break. I will inform Harry of the plans.” He couldn’t stop one side of his mouth from curling up ever so slightly at the thought of it. To throw the ring back in that spoiled boy’s face and tell him he was not to have Sansa seemed beyond pleasure.

When she leaned in he almost instinctively reached out one hand, his fingertips grazing her skirt. Black increased the paleness of her skin, the richness of her hair. Even though she was clearly tired her eyes shown. He did not think it would be a color that would suit her, preferring to picture her in virginal tones, in softer hues that went with her warmth. Now, seeing her in the cold gown, he could not help but feel he had been a fool. It suited her, just as well as the sight of death.

Her smile was sweet but he could read something in it–the pushing aside of such moral concerns for fashion, the idea of the future, the ice he had hoped to foster. He let his own smile grow.

“You will have all the gowns you wish. I won’t stand to have you in anything less than the finest.”

His hand went to her waist, tightening and pulling. He pointed at a sheet of paper with his other hand, to a sum of money he hoped would speak for itself.

“Now try to be a proper mourner, my dear.”

 

-

 

**[Sansa]**

She slept alone, resisting the urge to seek him out the night before the funeral. The fear of being caught so close to their escape was too great a risk to close the short distance between them. Instead of staring again at that spot on the floor she turned her back, focusing on that proud smile on his face before she’d left him to finish his work. She thought of the future, of herself in a beautiful dress, of leaving the stifling confines of her room, her cage.

The next afternoon, she was indeed a proper mourner.

It was strange, the feeling of familiarity that surrounded her at the funeral scene. She worn the same black dress, stood so near to the same spot on the grounds as she had for another burial not so very long ago. At her side in place of Lysa was Harry, who she bore no greater love for than her dead aunt. His fingers curled around her hand, a gesture of comfort, whispering kind words in her ear. She hoped her detachment, her coldness to him would be attributed to simple grief and not what lay ahead.

There was no shadowed man off in this distance this time, however. Her uncle stood at her other side, stoic, and Sansa wondered when Petyr would tell the boy, when the rejection would be made known. Part of her wanted to be present; it was her engagement after all, even if she hadn’t brokered the match. But another part of her, the part still untainted by her new existence, did not want to see the hurt in the poor boy’s eyes, the confusion. He was an oaf, a fool, but he had done nothing wrong.

Then again, neither had Lysa Arryn.

She watched the body slowly descend to the woman’s final home, near where her mother and other ancestors rested. The girl willed tears to fall, her lips to tremble, breath to come in ragged gasps. It was an easy thing to do, to pretend, and maybe that was because it wasn’t all a ruse. The girl wasn’t only saying goodbye to family, she was saying goodbye to herself as well. To her old life.

She clutched the boy’s fingers tighter, and her other hand reached for her uncle’s; it would be an appropriate enough, innocuous gesture, she reasoned. His palm was warm, despite the chill in the air, and it was more of a comfort than she could say.

 

**[Petyr]**

The day of the funeral was a blur of sympathetic faces and kind words, of things that needed to be done at that moment and people telling him to rest. Petyr adsorbed it all with his face a hollow mask, speaking no more than necessary, completely and utterly detached from himself. It was a numbness that had served him well in the past and would continue to do so for many years, resulting in a shell made up of expectations going through the motions.

He kept his distance from her. Even this early on he had a feeling that if anything made him crack, it would be the sight of her.

The day of the funeral was warm, summer digging its claws into autumn. All around them was brown, save for the dots of black lined around the grave. He stared forward with gray eyes, burned the image of the coffin into his mind, felt his heart twitch with each shovel of dirt. It was done, it was done. He could almost feel sorry for her, for how stupid and foolish she was, but nothing would ever make him wish her back.

Sansa’s fingers broke through the barrier he had placed between them, welcome though maybe not advisable, like a drink indulged too early in the evening. He made the mistake of glancing over and seeing the boy, seeing his hand grip hers. If he faltered he hoped it was easily dismissed, and he gave Sansa’s hand a squeeze before pulling away once more.

Afterwards the house was more alive than it had been in weeks. Guests flowed to and from, food and drink was plentiful, sobs and low talk created a din. And it was there that the hollow thing that was him was most useful. He was able to absorb it all, the kindness and the lies, and parrot it all back.

When the day slid into night he pulled Harry aside.

The boy was young and handsome and he hated him so. He wore his finery with no style, reeked of the lack of effort that came with privilege. The idea of him having Sansa, with his unskilled hands and greedy mouth, turned his stomach more than any other aspect of that day.

Still, when he laid out what was to pass–he was Sansa’s guardian now, and she must go to a school to be educated, perhaps if the match was still agreeable he could wait until after that fact?–it was with a serious, even tone. He watched the boy’s face crumble with the same secret delight as he did watching Lysa put into the earth.

The boy relented, for what was he to do on a day such as this? The ring would be returned, Petyr assured him, as if that mattered to the boy. Such a small trinket it was, Sansa would not miss it once Petyr had the luxury to indulge.

He caught her gaze, briefly, as the night was winding down. He hoped she saw his smile.

 

**[Sansa]**

Harry sought her out, the boy’s brow furrowed and the frustration clear in his eyes. His shoulders were tense as he told her of her uncle’s desire to end their betrothal, to sever the match in place of school. He made Petyr out to he the villain, spitting his name out in a hushed voice. And maybe he was the villain, but not to her.

Harry took her hands, he told her he would wait, and as Sansa slipped the ring from her finger and attempted to hand it back to him the boy refused, leaving it in her palm. She slid the trinket into the pocket of her dress as the he left, a quick glance around to make certain no one saw her keep it.

The condolence wishers lingered in the house for far too long, and Sansa stole away to rest before the last guest left, if indeed they left at all. She’d wanted to stay awake until she could be alone for a moment with Petyr, but as the night wore on she found fatigue winning out against that desire, the sound of voices below still dull behind her door. The girl tucked the ring away in the bottom of a drawer, keeping the small token out of sight, before she drifted to sleep.

The next morning was no better; she found breakfast guests in the form of distant relatives who’d arrived late to the funeral but still wanted to pay their respects. Or at least wanted to see if they were mentioned in a certain will, Sansa suspected, with tight lips as she poured milk in her tea. She caught her uncle’s eye for a moment, knowing he saw through them as well as she did.

Petyr was again in his element; she watched with fascination as he conquered every problem that dared threaten, from estate concerns to money hungry hangers-on, and he did it with the air of a mourning husband. His mask did not falter for a second, save once or twice when there was no one to oversee the smirks he gifted her. Those brief moments between them kept her going through the day, and another, and another.

Three days after the funeral the girl found herself looking through some of her aunt’s old boxes. She had the floor of the main room littered with old things; clothes, papers, dolls and toys. Most of them would need to be thrown away, and Sansa was tasked with determining which items should remain. When Petyr came down the stairs flanked with what the girl assumed were attorneys, she couldn’t hide her frown. They hadn’t had a moment alone since their private breakfast so long ago.

But the men were leaving, and Sansa took the opportunity afforded her. She called his name as soon as the door was shut and the businessmen were gone, beckoning him into the room. On her lap rested a small pile of photos, of her aunt and her mother and a pair of young boys as well. Of course she could not see the colour of his eyes, but one of the boys seemed terribly familiar. She held one photograph up to him. “That’s you there, isn’t it?”

 

**[Petyr]**

Each act of the play went according to his plans. Guests arrived and left, simple people that were easy to read. Condolences were spoken, for though Petyr had not been wed to her for long they had, after all, grown up together, and were always so fond of each other. Flattery was given by those that felt they would not get their due. He put in a magnificent performance all around, though he was beginning to feel the chaffing effects of not having a challenge.

Sansa seemed to handle the affair by retreating to the edges. Perhaps this was all too much for her, too soon. The first time Petyr had entangled himself in the disgraceful necessity of death it had not come with mourners or pageantry attached. It had not come with this idleness that was choking even him. That she appeared to be holding up at all seemed a testament to her character, and he felt the constant, impotent, desire to show her his approval.

The press of people was simply too great. He had to content himself with knowing glances, with flashes of her just out of the corner of his eye, with heady memories that he indulged in at night, when she slept just down the hall and a mile away.

But all plays came to an end. And soon enough the footsteps would retreat, the halls would grow silent, and they would put their backs to this place.

One day, as it was winding down, he caught a glimpse of her as he was ushering lawyers out, a figment of darkness and red in the corner of his vision. He held her there as he talked, as he bid them goodbye, as he surveyed the halls to ensure they were alone.

He heard his name, smooth and clear on the still air. It set something alight in him.

Petyr approached her, hands in pockets, a mockery of nonchalance. This would be the first time they had been alone in a room for days, and he once more felt that spark that had initially drawn him to her.

She was holding out a photograph, black and white and a bit worn. He knew what it was before he inspected it but took it all the same, his fingers reaching out to graze hers.

“Yes, that’s me.” The boy in the picture was undoubtedly him, small with large eyes, but he felt no familiarly with this reflected boy, no connection. It was him and yet it wasn’t. The fragments of his past self still existed in his memory, but staring into the eyes of this boy he saw nothing in common with the man he was.

He didn’t look at himself for long, or Edmure on Cat’s lap. He was more interested in the girls, pretty in matching dresses, the way he could clearly read them even in the silver of the photograph. Their personalities shown through, even in the artificial conditions of the pose, Cat’s gaze piercing him, Lysa desperate from the shadows. Ghosts, just as he was.

He gave the photograph back in Sansa, touched her hand in an effort to feel something.

“After my mother died, my father had me brought up here. I stayed until I was a man.” He had the sudden fear that he had said too much.

 

**[Sansa]**

She watched him study the photo, confirming what she already knew. It was strange for her to imagine him as a boy, running across the grounds with her relatives. Had he explored the woods and ponds the same way she did now? Sansa could scarcely picture the man in front of her as a child, and her lips tilted up at the thought of it. Still, he did not seem unhappy in the photograph; and the estate was likely less grim with children filling the house, with life in place of the death that lingered in the halls.

These photos, she decided, would be placed in the pile of things to be kept, to be stored safely away. She set the photos aside, amongst the endless piles of thing, and reached out for his hand, hoping to steal a few moments, hoping he would sit near to her if only more a moment. For the first time in nearly a week the house was not bustling, although Sansa was certain it would be a short lull; there was still much to do and plan.

And then he did something that surprised her. The man offered her an explanation, unprompted, about himself. At first she did not have a response, and her eyes might have widened a bit at the newness of it. For all their intimacies, this, this moment seemed most private.

Her tongue finally moved, finding words to return to him. “I’m sorry about your mother.” Decades late, but she was so used to her courtesies. He’d lost her young, then, younger than Sansa had lost her own. He must have felt so out of place, so alone, being raised with people that were not his own family.

It wasn’t a pitying look she gave him, and she hoped that wasn’t what showed in her face. It was something else, something indicative of similarity, of something shared. She knew what it was like to suffer loss, they were alike in that way. And more, she was grateful for his candour, for another piece of information about his life. Her fingers tightened around his hand, unwilling to sever that connection.

He was raised in the estate until he was grown, and then what? She wanted to know more about his past, about his childhood and the space between leaving this house all the way to his recent return. There were decades, a lifetime of stories untold, unknown. She mustered the nerve, and found herself asking a quiet question. “What made you leave?” Lysa would have let him stay forever, she assumed.

 

**[Petyr]**

He had regretted the words as soon as they came spilling from his mouth but now it was too late. It was a slip, a small but significant thing born by the connection he felt to her and brought out now because of their lack of contact. Days under the mask had apparently done more to him than he had thought. The cracks in him that he had allowed her to see had widened, and now there was no going back; she had dug in. If he was being honest would he really want to? To retreat would at worst sever the connection; at best it would cast the teacher/student roles in a more clinical light. They were entangled, she as vulnerable as him. No, it was best to remain wrapped up but on guard.

“Thank you.” The words were dry in his mouth. In truth he barely remembered his mother. Only her smell remained, a soft, powdery scent that sometimes lingered in his dreams.  
No, this had been his true home, with all the joys and pains that one could associate with that word.

Her hand was tight on his, letting him know she understood. He squeezed it back, enjoying the feel of her skin against his. He had understood from the beginning just how similar she was to the boy he had been–one could not mistake that airy quality, the wideness of the gaze–and to hear her recognize it was a treat. Perhaps one day she would realize just what a gift his instruction was. He had had no teacher to lead him in the art of survival.

She spoke of his being cast out and he wasn’t certain he was able to hide the bitterness in his smile. Even now that wound was fresh, though he was well-practiced in keeping the whole of it hidden. “I was sent away. Apparently, I was no longer good enough for your grandfather, once his daughters began to express an interest in me.” He hoped that would satisfy her for now, though he knew very well she would keep her nails in that wound.

It was, after all, exactly what he would do.

He pulled her closer then, until their bodies brushed together. Such modesty after all that had passed, but the risk was so very great. Soon enough they would be gone, the plans made, but soon was not now.

 

**[Sansa]**

Her mother had rarely spoken of her childhood, and try as she might Sansa could not remember a Petyr Baelish within those stories. The picture resting in a pile next to them stood out as proof the man had been truthful at their first meeting, a great friend of your mother’s he’d said, but she’d not heard tell of him from Catelyn Stark.

The girl’s brows furrowed as she watched him, wanting further information but expecting nothing; he’d given her more than he ever had before. Sent away, and so he had not left of his own volition. He must be speaking of Lysa’s ill fated infatuation as the cause for his reprimand. Perhaps her interest in him really had started so long ago, and it made sense then that she’d been so willing to trust him, to marry him so hastily. The woman must have been harbouring that affection for decades, letting it warp and fester into something else entirely. In the end, it was what killed her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she held onto his use of the word _daughters_ and not _daughter_ when speaking of interest. The girl locked it away, keeping it inside for the time being.

He brought them closer together, the front of her dress grazing his clothed chest, and the girl let out a breath she did not know she’d been holding. Tension left her shoulders and her spine, in relaxation from their connection. Sleep had been fitful for her, the days dragging on in anticipation of their departure, but that anxiety slipped away at his presence.

Her hand was still in his hold, and she lifted her fingers up from his, toying with the cuff of his shirt, sliding her fingertips along the pulse of his wrist. She’d missed him, of course she had, and the ache seemed worse now with their proximity. Her body seemed to bend into him, pulled by unseen strings, an unconscious accommodation.

“Are you making progress with the arrangements?” Her lips stayed parted; the girl barely noticed it. Her fingers were a gentle sweep on his arm, the room oddly quiet after her words ceased. Across the home she could hear faint sounds from the kitchen, footsteps occasionally sounding from above. But there, around them, there was nothing save their own steady breaths.

 

**[Petyr]**

He had the peculiar feeling of being rushed back to their first meetings. Their movements were tentative, exploratory things, both of them testing to see how far they could push this without being caught. The murder had understandably upped the need for caution and yet here they were, so close they were sharing breath.

Sansa did not press the issue and silently he thanked her. He had a fear that soon enough she would dig in further, reopen the scar and wrap her hands around his heart, but for now he was spared. Her questions were practical ones. He would need to reward her.

Her fingers were light on him and he returned the sensation, curling a hand at her hip and drumming his digits against the bone. His eyes turned from the photograph on the floor to her, to the living girl in his arms, to her parted lips and wide eyes.

“The reading of the will is tomorrow, as you know. I have things set up for those that will occupy the estate in our absence.” (A distant relation, to in love with the idea of the house and the grounds to ask too many questions). “It should be a week or so, I dare say. At that point we will be on a train, and away from here”

The question of where it was they would go was another one, but Petyr found it to be the least important. They would go wherever, hitting the big cities and small towns without prejudice. For this first trip, though, Petyr felt the need to give her something exquisite.

“How about New York?” It would be the perfect cover, since the school he was supposed to enroll her in was vaguely “back out East.” And he could see Sansa, charming and rich among the life and color of the city.

He tilted her head up with his free hand, held her close. “Would you like that, sweetling?” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers without caution.

**[Sansa]**

The will meant nothing to Sansa, in truth, but she nodded at his explanation all the same. She knew her aunt’s husband would acquire everything; she’d meant nothing at all to Lysa Arryn. The girl was more focused on the timeframe he spoke of, a week, only a week. The end was near enough to see.

Her lips turned up in a smile as she kissed him. The girl hadn’t given much thought to where they would be going once the estate was left behind. Now, giving it consideration, she could see just how open their future was. The opportunities, the unknown, was both tempting and slightly scary. It was something real now, no longer just something whispered between the pair. A nearly tangible thing, and she could feel her heartbeat quicken.

Her skin prickled at their connection; days had gone by, and the girl had nearly forgotten his taste. She remembered it soon enough; her hips angled into his touch, her mouth responding in kind. There was life all around them, the house so far from empty, but soon that would be a concern left far behind.

A few seconds and she pulled back enough to meet his eyes for a moment; she was certain he could see the excitement that lived behind blue. “New York.” The words were thoughtfully spoken, before a nod, an agreement. “If you think that would be the best place to continue my education, uncle.” And that smile wouldn’t leave her face, then, as much as she tried; when was the last time she had such a problem?

It would be such a contrast, a different world entirely from the one she was living now. There would be no lifeless, boring home, no vast woods and hills and fields. It was a proper city, one of the finest in the world. There would be endless shops and restaurants, crowds at every turn. The girl might lose herself wandering the expanse of roads. She could already see it when her eyes closed, when she met his mouth again, pressing against him with no small amount of urgency.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr could hear the sounds of the servants bustling about in hidden corners of the household. He could hear life, the business of the estate, returning to some semblance of normality while it waited for the change in hands. In other words, the press of others was all around them–they were not protected by a latched door, a dark grove.

And yet when her hips shifted forward to his he responded in turn. When her lips pressed his with fervor he did as well, nipping at the soft flesh there. The days apart had been lonely, sullen things, and the weight of her was simply too much to deny.

His heart was fast in his chest and she was close enough to he could feel hers as well; a similar, rapid pattern. She was alive, warm and vibrant in his arms, not cold and lost with a pair of scissors in her breast.

He hadn’t thought himself sentimental in years. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this grip of emotion.

His fingers threaded alone her spine, the black silk of her dress warm in the heat. Soon enough they would be able to shed these garments, soon enough he would have her in every color, in cuts and silks that she had never seen. He would be the envy of all, having her on his arm, the niece and her doting uncle.

“I think you will find it a good place for my particular brand of instruction.” Words spoken against her mouth, closed off from the world, a promise tinged with something thick.

There were footsteps on the stairs. He pulled back but not before swiping a hand up to grasp a breast, a promise that would linger.


	16. Chapter 16

**[Petyr]**

The actual reading of the will was a dry and tense affair. He sat in the front, well aware of the stares he was given by all assembled. He kept his face solemn, a study of the grieving spouse, though he pricked all over with energy. The heat of the gazes pushed him forward, the idea that they would return to their spouses and speak of the jumped-up fool who dared to sit in their company.

When it was all over he shook the hands of those that hated him and took in their hollow words of sympathy.

Sansa did not attend, feigning a headache. He was glad of it, truthfully, for the taste he had had of her still lingered on his mouth. If she was there he was not certain his attention would be so rapt.

Their guests left as soon as the funds were rationed out and the house returned to its deathly stillness. He remained downstairs for as long as necessary before retreating to the upper floor with light feet.

He found her in her room, standing before the window and watching their guests depart. The sound of the latch announced him.

“Well, we’re a wealthy pair.” The words were sweet on his tongue.

 

**[Sansa]**

A headache, she’d said, and of course no one argued with her when she kept herself in her room. She was simply a ward, now her uncle’s problem, and certainly not important for a such a thing as a will.

The guests left much faster than she thought they would, although there was nothing left to make them stay, and so she should have known they would rush away and away, off to spend that unearned money. Distant relatives they were, and none recognisable by sight as they exited the home. Not a pleased look lined any of their faces.

And again, much faster than she would have expected, he was there, in the room with her. She did not need to turn to know; his footsteps, his gait, were familiar to her now, and welcome.

The girl smiled unseen, her mouth still toward the pane of glass; he’d come to her just after the meeting, all other duties must have been pushed aside so he could bring her the news.

The people below her were small in the distance now; ants, nothing. For the first time in a long time she did not wish she was somewhere else.

He sounded pleased when he spoke, and why shouldn’t he be? He was a rich man; he’d won the game, utterly unstained. “We?” The girl moved then, turning but not leaving the window.

The smile she gave him might have been a little sad, a slight huff of breath at his words. Than man before her was the only one between them who could boast heavy pockets. “Tell me, uncle dear, did she leave anything to me?” She knew the answer, but she asked him anyway, needing to hear him say just how little she’d meant to her aunt.

And the more important question, the most important one: “When do we leave?” Despite how hard she tried to deny it the man’s absence had been a quiet torture to her. This kiss in the main room, his hand teasing her breast, had set the girl ablaze. In her bed that night she’d shamefully reached between her legs, imagining his fingers there, wishing to feel his mouth along her neck.

Could he see it in her then, how much she wanted him near? It was an almost constant ache now, to be apart when they were so close to leaving, so close to whatever came next. Sansa stood by the window, watching him but not closing the distance, not wanting to show the weak desperation she felt inside.

 

**[Petyr]**

The tone of Sansa’s voice when she spoke of her aunt told him quite clearly that she already knew his answer. There was a bitterness about the edges that stood in clear contrast to the sweetness of the girl before him, her soft graces and noble stance. And it was true that the girl had gained nothing from her aunt’s death, save her freedom.

“The will was a short thing. She didn’t put much thought into it.” He said this as if it might soothe her mood. “I wasn’t even mentioned by name, only that her husband would take all in the event of her death.”

He stepped forward until he was at her back, until he was able to rest her palm on her hip. With his free hand he closed the shades, so that only muted sunlight spilled in on them.

“You can have anything you wish, of course.” He would not be one to deny her, though he suspected she would want as few reminders of this house as possible. Perhaps in time she would learn to enjoy her victories.

“We can leave as soon as you are ready, of course.” He had nothing here to hold him, and in truth he was as anxious in this stage as she was. The dull waiting period between one success and another had never been his favorite, the headiness and exhilaration long gone. In this place it was compounded by the fact that he must keep his distance from her, despite her continual presence, despite the memories that hung about the rooms. He longed for the road, for another challenge, for the chance to see her eyes shine as the world, in all its decadent splendor, unfolded before her.

Petyr rested his lips at her temple and breathed in. Even when she wore no perfume the smell of her was sweet and he found his tongue darting out as if chasing a memory. “Have you missed me?” A stupid question but he needed to hear it from her own lips. “I missed you.” He pressed her hard against him, hoping she realized exactly what it was he meant by it.

His fingers gripped the silk of her gown while his other hand coiled around a breast. “Were you thinking of me, in this bed?” Perhaps the monetary gain had done something to his diminished excitement, but he would be fooling himself if he admitted it was not simply the feel of her.

 

**[Sansa]**

The shades were shut in front of her, masking the two of them from the outside world as his hand found her side. Sansa’s body relaxed into his, an almost unconscious set of motions, enjoying the feel of his chest along her spine.

She wondered if he was as eager to leave as she was; was the need to leave as constricting in him as it was in her? “I’m ready.” Soon, _now_. She had little to pack; a few worn dresses and small trinkets, a brooch, a hidden ring. A photo or two she’d kept, as well as another she’d found within the home. All else could be abandoned, forgotten. As sad as she was about her aunt’s neglect of her she knew there was nothing she really wanted from the house. The estate had been a way station, a temporary necessity in order to meet the man she would bind herself to. Now, having him, having freedom, her aims were different, more ambitious.

She did not have much time to think on it; he was pressing himself flush against her in the next moment, his body aligning with hers. The suddenness surprised her; something near to a gasp escaped from between her lips as a hand found her chest, keeping the girl near. And he was asking a question, although she barely heard it over the thrum of her limbs, her skin, the familiar place below her navel.

Her reflexes betrayed her answer, her head giving a tentative nod before she had the chance to speak. When she did find her voice the words were truer still, the sentiment flowing out uninhibited, urged on by his admission of missing her, by the warmth radiating from him. “I think of you always.” Waking, sleeping, day and night. he was a constant, a permanence in her life in a way she had never known before. But he would not be pleased with such a vague answer, and so she added: “Especially in this bed, last night. After…” After teasing her, leaving her flushed and alone.

The room itself was a fount of memories; her own loss of innocence, a plan for escape, a murder; somehow their act seemed less risky in a place so filled with those reminders. Her neck craned enough to find his mouth, her own frenzied against him, some tangible proof of how much she’d missed him. One arm lifted in order for fingers to feel his jawline, running along the short bristles of hair there. Her other hand joined him at her skirts, her hips giving a slight undulation against him.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her body was tightly coiled, a shock of electricity noticeable even through the damnable mourning clothes that kept him from her skin. He could see her, just barely, reflected in the glass of the window, her lips parted and her eyes grown dark. He stared down this shadowed face with the same hot gaze, the feel of her against him pushing him further and further away from the respectable man he had been downstairs.

Sansa’s voice was like honey, a sweetness that he had missed more than he realized. She spoke of him in the same terms he reserved for her, admitting to past deeds and alluding to hurried encounters with a paradoxical shyness that, for him, only served to heighten the memory. Their encounter in the parlor had left him more than wanting, and when he had finally retired in the evening he could hardly wait to take himself in his own hand. To think of her, just feet of way, doing the same pleased him to no end. He wondered if such a thought had even entered her head before their meeting.

“Oh?” He spoke against her lips as she kissed him, his body leaning into her touch. He was half-hard already, the release he had granted himself last night simply not enough. Nothing, it seemed, was ever enough when it came to her.

“And what exactly accompanied these thoughts?” His hand moved from her skirt to the buttons at her back. The dress was an austere thing, old-fashioned and soon to be forgotten. With slow hands he began to free her.

“Did you find relief?” He continued as her skin began to reveal itself. He had an image of her in his head, fingers between her legs as she groaned into her sheets, and he had to pause in his actions for a moment in order to collect himself.

Pause, but not stop. He needed to _see._

“How do you know you did it correctly without your teacher here?” A small tut ended that sentence, a light tease from the instructor role he was becoming more and more keen to.

The next thought hung in the air before it was spoken, his lips holding the word in until the tension was just right. “Show me.”

 

**[Sansa]**

She could feel the cool air on her neck, her shoulders, her back as the dark dress was pulled slowly apart. The man’s wicked words were in her ear; had she found relief? “Yes…but it wasn’t the same.” Of course not, her own fingers did not compare to the feel of him, the way he looked at her, the warmth of his skin on hers. It was a poor substitute, and her voice told him as much.

Sansa’s garment fell, leaving her in the immodest slip as the man chastised her. Perhaps she would be bolder next time and risk seeking him out. Would he have shooed her away or welcomed her? The thought was left unsaid, a part of her buzzing at the reprimand, even as her face grew warm.

He wanted to her show him, and the girl paused for a moment at the command. Forever a student, the man was aiming to educate, putting on his low teacher’s tone. There was no desire to deny him anything, especially as his fingers grazed her skin, his breath causing her flesh to prickle.

Slowly, and maybe she was nervous, the girl lifted the slip up to her abdomen, baring her pale legs to the blocked window in front of her. Her free hand paused, blue eyes meeting his, before slipping into her underwear. For a second she expected him to give her further instruction, to join her hand, to take over, but he didn’t. He wanted a demonstration, he wanted to see, and she could give him that. Her head was still turned to him when index and middle began a slow teased along her slit, the way Petyr sometimes did, before pads felt against her nub.

Her chest heaved, and she knew he would be able to see how much better it was in his presence; the flush in her cheeks, the peaked nipples visible through the thin material of her slip. But the girl knew that wouldn’t be enough for him; she was learning him, coming to gauge what he liked, and she closed her eyes as she spoke. “Am I doing well, uncle?” Her fingers grew slick as they moved, and she could feel the lewd press of him behind her.

With that, she leaned into him fully, her feet sliding apart a few inches but still trapped by the dress pooled there. Her thighs spread with the motion, fingers a languid pace, waiting for his response.

 

**[Petyr]**

She moved with the timidness of a virgin, all shy movements and soft blushes, and for the first time the idea that she was still so inexperienced became utterly, deliciously, clear to him.

Despite all he had done to debase her and drag her down the path of debauchery there were still new acts to share, new teases, and the continued thrill of watching her take these bold steps.

Sansa displayed herself to him in the shadowed window, her fingers dipping down to slid between her legs. His chest tightened, his body pushing forward in an instinctive need to get her to feel the hardness she created.

She was asking for approval, eyes closed and head back against his shoulder. The fingers between her legs were growing more slick by the moment, the lewd sound they made letting him know exactly what condition she was in. The room was suddenly hot, his nails digging into her skin and his hips marking out a slow rhythm against her backside.

“I’m very pleased.” The word was a purr, spoken just before his lips rested an almost innocent kiss to her cheek. And he was–she was starting to learn the importance of tension, of the slow dance that came before any hardened act.

But tease of not he could no longer deny himself some of his own relief, his body growing distinctly uncomfortable at the sight of her display. With another kiss to the neck Petyr pulled back, slowly less she fall, and deposited himself into a nearby armchair.

He slid down low in his seat. His trousers did nothing to hide his desire, and his fingers grazed the soft wool in an effort to gain some friction.

But his eyes remained on her, on the wetness between her legs, on her parted lips and wide eyes. The smile that overtook him then was nothing short of mischievous, a boyish, wicked grin on the face of a man twice her age.

“Would you like to see how I thought of you?”

 

**[Sansa]**

He was pleased, he’d said, and the girl couldn’t stop a small shudder. How absurd that his approval meant so much to her, that his words might serve to amplify her own pleasure. His fingers dug, surely forming new bruises where the old ones had now healed, and she knew she would welcome them gladly.

But it was short lived; that contact was broken not soon after. Blue eyes flitted open, her entire frame feeling that loss of warmth, that loss of him as her fingers stopped their machinations. Feet stepped out of the confines of her fallen dress so she could turn to see the man completely. He was gone from her then, slipping away from her to seat himself in one of the chairs.

Truthfully, she had not given much thought to it, how the man found his own end when she was not with him. Perhaps it could be attributed to her still inchoate notions of physical relationships, or perhaps she was simply selfish in that way. Now that the idea was posed to her, however, she found her mind overcome with intrigue. She imagined Petyr in his room, a man so well controlled laying abed, thinking of her as he took himself in hand, and her eyes widened.

How easy it would have been to cross the distance between them, to climb atop him, to kiss him. She was open and wanting, the dampness between her legs signalled just how much she wanted him. But curiosity was quickly trumping that urge; she wanted to watch, just as he had. She wanted to see him.

And so the girl nodded, a slow thing, and she found her digits resuming their pace, matching the way he was rubbing against the fabric of his slacks. His eyes were fixed on her, in the way that nearly made her squirm. _Starved_ , a word he had said to her what seemed decades ago, before she’d known how it felt to touch him, to be touched by him. It seemed they both were, then, close but not close enough, toying with the other, making a game of their shared lust.

And Sansa could not deny she loved it.

**[Petyr]**

No word of protest fell from her lips as he pulled away from her. The realization of what was to happen came swiftly into her eyes, any shock of the movement absorbed by the lust that lay there, and Petyr could not help but be proud of himself. How different she was from the girl he had met weeks ago, on the evening of her mother’s funeral! How different she was from the girl who had shied and blushed under his hand! And yet she was not different, not truly, not where it mattered. All of this had been hidden under that modesty and courtesy and morality.

(It still lingered around the edges, waiting to be sharpened).

He bit his lower lip, torturing himself with light, deadened touches as she slid her fingers against herself. His eyes were wide, wishing to absorb it all–even after all that they had done this act seemed to hold a special significance for him, this performance for him. Her skin was flushed and she was indulging in a great sin before his very eyes, one that she did when she was denied his touch. He could see her, desperate and ashamed among her sheets, taking her pleasure and casting away all she had been told she must not do, and it was almost too much for him.

His hands were at his fastenings then, pulling away the fabric and taking himself out, his fingers curling around the engorged flesh. A moan reverted in his throat, choked and heated; he had not known just how needy he was. The time spent apart, coupled with this slow torture, had done much to set his body on edge. If he felt this way he could only imagine what she was going through.

Petyr began to pump slowly, languid strokes. He watched Sansa follow the movements of his hand, saw the need in her eyes, felt that masculine pride.

Her name was strangled out of him, so harsh and low it would be a wonder she could hear him. He righted himself a bit, corrected himself to put himself back into the position of control.

When he spoke again it was with a clear, lightly teasing voice, his body struggling to ignore the scent of her, the sounds she was making, the obscene sight of it all.

“Tell me what you want. Tell me what you dream about when you touch yourself.”

 

**[Sansa]**

It took a few long seconds for his words to sink in, for her to understand what he wanted. She might have expected that sort of command by now; he seemed to love to watch her squirm, to hear her say the things she oughtn’t. She was finding it more and more difficult to listen to her nettling conscience telling her that she shouldn’t, that it was wrong. Her body was taut, on edge, slowly growing desperate. And more, she did not want to see any disappointment on his face.

The girl was quiet when she answered him, as if the floorboards that her aunt had fallen on might hear her. “I think about your mouth…” Her hand left her slip, letting the material hang around the arm that continue to move between her legs. Up it went, her palm moving to rest against her covered breast. “Your mouth here.” And she could nearly feel his tongue flicking out to tease a nipple.

“And here.” She indicated to the slickness below. If she closed her eyes she knew she would easily see that moment spent in the study, both of them hazy with brandy and lust, the man on his knees below her. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the glide of his tongue along her apex. His smile against her skin.

She hadn’t noticed her pace hastening as she spoke. Sansa was preoccupied with watching him, his eyes almost seeing through her, his stroking more controlled now than her own. But even so, she saw that hitch in his breath, heard her name spoken low, and she was beginning to have some handle on what effect she was having. Never before had she considered that a woman touching herself might be pleasing to a man, but seeing him there, his tension, his parted lips, and she knew better now.

It was that thought that urged her on. “And I thought of your-“ Could she say the word? Perhaps not; her eyes lowered, down to where he held himself. She watched him, those slow and tempered movements, the fluid at the head of him as he ran his thumb over himself. The blood rushed to her face and she made a noise, a whimper, her knees beginning to weaken as she worked herself over with increased fervour.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her voice, hushed as she brought up pleasurable memories that she still seemed hesitant to speak of, brought back to him the visceral memory of having her in such a way. In his mind he still could taste her, sweet and clean. He still could smell her, the heavy perfume that seemed to linger about him all day. He still could feel her against his tongue, slick and innocent, her body overcome with waves of excitement that must have come as a surprise to her. He knew that such an experience was completely out of her worldview, and prided himself for the introduction of yet another wicked task.

Sansa spoke around naughty words, her gaze heavy-lidded. _You know_ , seemed to follow her statements, infusing it with a heady air that only came with shared knowledge. The secrets of partners, of lovers, words that did not need to be spoken. He loved to hear her say them–he still played in his mind what he was able to get her to agree to the other night, as one would a favorite recording–but there was something in the innocence, in the shared sin, that was just as appealing.

He was hot in his hand. His thumb smeared the liquid at the head, his mind trying to get his body to relax despite the sweet sight before him. She really did not know the power that she held.

“My mouth?” Hopefully she did not hear the hitch in his voice, the betrayal of weakness. She seemed too far gone herself, her legs almost noticeably trembling, and for that he was grateful. He was, after all, supposed to be the one with the upper hand, and it simply would not do for her to see how easy he was to break.

But break he did; there was only so much the man could take. It was then that he abandoned himself, abandoned all pretext of the tease. He kicked himself out of his trousers and, with one smooth move, made it from the chair to her, his arms coiling around her and pushing her back until her legs hit the bed.

“Do you miss my mouth between your legs, sweet one?” Petyr was already pushing her back as he spoke, practically salivating at the thought.

 

**[Sansa]**

She hadn’t expected him to comply, if she was honest with herself. Those softly spoken entreaties were simply meant to incite, not call him into action. But they did; his movements were quick things, removing his slacks and rising to meet her in the span of a few of her heavy breaths. The game was over then, or perhaps it was just truly beginning as her uncle closed the distance, pressing his chest to hers.

Her fingers stopped that urgent stroke, that throbbing forgotten for the moment, eager instead for the man’s arms around her, his familiar warmth. Hands felt along his clothed chest, his shoulders, the hair at his temples, pleased with the renewed contact. Bare legs brushed against her own when he began to lead them backward, away from the window and the chair, to the comfort of the mattress behind her.

The back of her knees met the cool sheets as he spoke again. She felt him now, hard against her covered stomach, his own need obvious. It did not last long; he seemed intent on giving her what she’d asked for, his hands a gentle downward press.

She let herself be guided back, until spine met the soft bed, her widened eyes fixed on the man now above her. The girl swallowed, slowly, almost nervously, as she nodded up to him, an answer to his question. Of course she’d missed it; she missed his mouth, his tongue, his approving hum against the sensitive skin there. More than that, she’d merely missed him.

Her hair spilled around her, and the arms at her sides shifted, fingers reaching for the end of her slip. Gradually, the girl began to pull it up, around her thighs, her hips, and further still, revealing herself entirely to the man. And even now, even after all the terrible things they’d done, she could not stop herself from asking: “Would you like to?” There might have been coyness there, lingering around the edges, as her legs began to part.

 

**[Petyr]**

Despite it all he was still enchanted with the sight of her, all long limbs and softness. He felt it unlikely that he ever would grow weary at such a sight, and felt a small, excited pang at the thought of all the men that would met their ends after being ensnared by her.

Even now, with blood very nearly on her hands, she held an air of innocence. He suspected that would never truly die, but would rather morph into a more deceptive screen, one that only he would be allowed to see behind.

Sansa presented herself to him, asked a question she did not need to speak. His fingers danced along her skin in an effort to expel some of the building energy, his cock throbbed against her flesh in protest to the lack of friction. It was with a hesitant excitement that he settled himself between her legs, eyes dark on her, his body eager for the taste and disappointed at the lack of contact. His hand returned to ghost alongside his member, giving himself some relief, holding himself off just a little more.

He wanted to make her scream, but even more than that he wanted to make her long to and yet hold herself back–familiar ground that they would not be giving up soon. He could picture himself, fingers fanning over her cheeks as the waves overtook her, and his nails dug into her thighs just a little too roughly.

Petyr licked his lips, his gaze not leaving her as he lowered himself to the feast before him. His tongue flicked out to taste, experimentally, before it became too much and he could not stop himself from devouring. One hand held her in place, the other held on to his cock, and nothing came from his mouth but the lurid sounds of raw enjoyment.

 

**[Sansa]**

Her memory had been a poor substitute, flawed and dulled with the passing of time. When his tongue teased, a light and testing thing, her hitching breath would tell him as much; she was already left wanting from her own fingers. But that preparatory lick was nothing, nothing at all in comparison, when he descended on her in the next moment.

“Oh, _god_.” She heard the words but didn’t realise she’d been the one to speak them for another set of breaths. What would her mother say, to hear her say that word in such a way? The girl might have laughed a cruel laugh if she hadn’t been preoccupied with the man between her legs. If she’d learned one thing about God from Sunday school, it was that He doesn’t listen to murderers. And more, her mother was gone and gone, no longer able to steer her in the right direction.

But Petyr, Petyr was here, she felt him, she needed him. He had taken that helm, veered their course into strange, new territory. Her tenuous ties to him were strengthening, tightening into something that would no longer break so easily. Looking down to him, to those eyes she might have drowned in, and it hastened that building desire. His hand was stroking, pleasuring himself while he pleasured her, and for a few seconds she watched with fascination.

The vibrations from the noises he made caused an entirely different sensation, and her hips bucked up against his caging hand in response. The girl tried with difficulty to keep still, he wanted her to be still she was certain, but her body writhed and twisted, unable to find another outlet for his actions. She was rational enough to know what to do when her own sounds grew too unwieldy; a hand clasped over her mouth, stifling the needy whines.

And oh, it was a mistake, she was convinced now, to ask him for this. It was too much; her pelvis rocked in a search for more, her eyes forced shut as his pace hastened. The girl’s free hand found his hair, threading fingers into the locks, seeking an anchor to keep afloat. She left the hold on her own mouth, his name a chant on her lips, a plea.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her taste had lingered on his tongue, a memory that he had held dear ever since he first performed this act, but now, confronted again with the reality of it, he was forced to realize just how hollow that memory was. Nothing could compare to the actual taste of her, sweet and fine, to the smell of her. Petyr had tasted many women in his time, women of class and breeding, women with far more experience than this girl, women he was never supposed to have, yet never before had he been presented with such a feast. Never before had he felt such a righteous surge of victory undercutting the act.

Sansa bucked under him, blasphemies falling from her pretty mouth. Her body was that of a girl unused to the intensity of these emotions; the unrestrained nature of it all went straight to his cock. He pushed himself into his hand to give himself some semblance of relief, the promise of something tighter, hotter, both holding him off and making him restless. He hummed against her lower lips, feeding off of the sin that came dripping from her. He could see her relations there, staring down at him as he pleasured her like she was his whore, and it did nothing more than fuel his desire.

As much as he wished to leave this house the press of the past made every act that much more wicked. It added a delicious flavor to it all that he was not sure could ever be recaptured.

Her nails scrapped against his scalp, her back arched. She had muffled herself and then not, unable to hold back his name. Petyr could not help but feel that masculine pride at the sound of it, interspaced with shallow breaths and accompanied by writhing limbs. He could feel her body tense, building and building toward climax, and it was with a heavy heart, a sly grin, that he pulled himself away.

He looked up at her, his lips an obscene shine, before heaving himself up to cover her body. Hands gripping the sheets, cock dragging across her flesh, he raised himself up before her, trapped her between his arms. She was spread before him, all white and red, tangled amongst the silks. He positioned himself at her apex, teased her with the head of himself, kept her pinned to the sheets.

“Do you want to come, sweetling?” His voice was almost innocent.

 

**[Sansa]**

Before meeting him, she never would have been able to fathom this sort of pleasure, this burning sort of need that consumed her. The girl wondered if it was normal, the way he made her writhe and bow to him, the sounds they made against each other. As atypical as their situation was, she did not have any experience to know if these baser moments were common, if a man might normally taste a woman in this way. If she’d married Harry, would he be the one performing such an act?

She supposed it didn’t matter, there was no one else for her. No one else so _hers_ as he was.

Her body was stretched and tense, a string of fabric pulled too tightly, as he continued. She was close; her toes curling against the sheets, her spine arching in preparation for that final, blinding moment, her mouth agape.

And then, he was gone from her, the cool air replacing his mouth, his warmth, and her eyes opened to see just what it was that made him stop. She was met with his hungry stare, a teasing smirk, and she could see it was all part of the lesson.

The man rose, slowly making his way up her torso, until he was again flush with her. He enveloped her, keeping her under him, and the girl couldn’t help a whimper when she felt his hardness slide between her legs. Her thighs parted wider for him, both an offering and a desperate move as she aligned her hips, rocking against him with abandon, more than eager for that missing friction.

How cruel he was, to bring a girl so near to her peak and then stop. He was asking what she wanted, and she knew she must answer, even as her body gave away what her words soon would. “Yes, Petyr, _please_.” There was no stopping the plea, not when she was so close, so far gone. And she knew he wanted it, wanted her; she could see those cracks forming in his resolve; perhaps that was what made her continue to urge him on. “Inside me, with me.” Her head lifted to close the distance, bringing her mouth to his, relishing that taste on his tongue.

 

**[Petyr]**

Underneath him she was a different creature all together. The hesitation, the instinctive graces, seemed to abandon her in these moments, replaced by a woman of lust and greed. Her body arched, desperate; all of her seemed to claw at him. Hunger had always made up so much of his reaction to her, and it seemed that was a shared state.

He moved with her, met her skin to skin. She was heated, alive, wild–he could see in her gaze, hear in her breath, the woman she had been when she witnessed a murder and did nothing, when she had helped a body drop and dusted off her hands.

She met his mouth and he opened his, allowed her to taste herself on his lips. The sound of her pleas still rung in his ears, a low hum that set each nerve alight.

He had no intention of denying her or himself any longer. He entered her swiftly, filling her with ease and pausing just long enough for her to get the feel of him. She was still so tight, so wet, so perfect and ready for him, and Petyr could think of nothing more satisfying than to lose himself in her, again and again.

He broke the kiss and pulled himself back so that he looked down on her from high. His hands coiled about her wrists, pinning her in place, and the sight of her spread before him, aching and open and submissive led to his hips moving on their own. The pattern he established was rough, his cock sliding to the hilt on each thrust, his gaze never leaving the sight before him.

Her skin was even lovelier in moments like this, the blush allowing the paleness to glow. Her hair spread out beneath her, rich against the white and tousled in a most unladylike way. Her breasts shook with each thrust, her body pushed against his grip, her hips met his with a delicious sound.

“Desperate little thing.” His eyes were focused on where they were joined, on the obscenity of the sight. “What am I to do with you?”

 

**[Sansa]**

His mouth quieted her moan when he slid into her. That stretch, that lingering soreness at her core, was still something that took her by surprise. It ached in the most perfect way, something familiar and welcome and shared. She watched him then, as he looked between them, and eventually her eyes strayed down to that connection as well. The girl hadn’t really watched before, and now she could see that meeting, the man sliding in and out, picking up an unforgiving rhythm as he moved deeper with each press.

It wasn’t at all what she’d imagined when Sansa had read stories of love and romance. As sheltered as she was from so much of the world, she simply hadn’t known. The slick sounds, the sheen of sweat on the man’s brow, the breathy moans shared between them, were not things she had expected or thought to anticipate. Still, she found herself unable to be disappointed; it was beautiful in its own way, she decided.

He spoke, and what was he to do with her? The question held a great deal of importance to the girl, but not necessarily in the teasing way he meant it. Even as her mind was foggy with lust she kept that question in the back of her mind, saving it for later.

The girl was familiar enough with the motions now, with the signs that indicated he was nearing his end. And so when she saw that ragged breath, when his movements grew erratic and urgent, her body worked to aid him. Knees bent further, her spine ached into him using her pinned wrists as leverage. She began to meet each of this thrusts with her own upward press, taking more, matching his vigour.

Her own skin tingled, and each time he met her flush she could not help the sounds she made. She’d been on edge even before he guided her to the bed, and that string that had been pulled so taut was near to breaking. Her mind was letting go, allowing her body to work uninhibited, chasing and chasing, becoming that desperate creature, and the only word on her lips was his name.

 

**[Petyr]**

From her pinned position she still managed to coil herself about him, hold him tight and close. Her hips began to meet his with the type of frantic thrusts that he was quite certain she would not display were her first partner some green boy, and he had half a mind to tease her about her appearance once the afterglow settled in. He thought better of it, however, not wanting to risk the continued sight of this for the sake of some demur blushes.

His thoughts soon enough lost any linear pattern. Petyr became lost in the basic pleasures of the senses, in the shocks she was sending through his body with her unpracticed talents, in the way she was clearly holding her own pleasure back. The concept of games, of holding out to see who would break first, seemed such a senseless thing at this moment. As far as he was concerned there was nothing in the world but the feel of her body, the anticipation of release.

Sansa was tight around him, tightening more and more, and he could hold it back no longer. He came with a sharp thrust, his hands pushing down on her wrists until he was certain they would bruise, a strangled, silent cry on his lips. The light around him seemed to fade, then spark, then settle into something clear and fine. The intensity of it did nothing to slow the pounding of his hips; for as long as he would remain hard he would stay in her, delighting in the perverse pleasure of sliding in and out, in and out, of her while she lay there, stained.

He pulled one hand away from her wrist and settled it where they were joined, fingers teasing her just above, his fingers growing slick in an instant, trying to aid her on. Her body had been a series of electric pleasure around him and he could not quite tell if the end had come for her. It didn’t matter if it did, really–he would draw this out of her no matter what.

“Perfect.” The word was nothing more than a mutter on his breath, his lips giving voice to his thoughts without the advice of his mind.

 

**[Sansa]**

Petyr went tense above her, his mouth open, that warmth filing her as he continued to buck, to move, aided by that fluid mixing between them. Her wrists ached from his hold, her thighs were growing sore from the chase, but these peripheral things were concerns for later. Her focus was on the feel of him still inside, still moving with her.

His fingers slithered between her legs then, stroking, drawing her to that same peak he’d so recently hit. The teasing had left her body on edge, but the girl was no longer concerned about her wanton behaviour, the frantic way she writhed; the reward was worth it. Her freed arm wrapped around them, bringing him near, allowing him to hear that keening sound when the moment came. She clung to him, finding that familiar hold paired with that moment of blinding pleasure.

His digits moved still, making certain she felt every new wave acutely. The girl sighed into his skin, enjoying the way he slid in and out of her even as he softened. It seemed they were both intent on making it last, on prolonging that connection. Sansa watched him, his body relaxing, his lean arm still holding her wrist, his lips parted as his breath evened, a warm wash against her skin.

The girl wondered if it would always be that way. She hoped it would always be this way.

She heard the words quietly spoke; perfect. Did it feel perfect to him truly? Her body still buzzed, ripping with lingering sparks, and she smiled up to him. It was a tired, pleased tilt of the lips, something she was sure had not been gifted to anyone else in her life. Nor would it be given to anyone save the man atop her; it was for him alone.

And softly, catching her breath, her body still in time with his at a slowing, sated pace, she asked him, “Is this how you thought of me?” When he held himself in hand alone, was this the girl he saw, bare and stained and very much content?

 

**[Petyr]**

She was staring up at him, something soft and womanly about her lips, the unmistakable expression of profound contentment. Still connected, Petyr could clearly feel the lingering shocks of her pleasure as they made their way through her body, drawing the most perfect sounds from her lips, sighs that had ingrained themselves into his mind, into his memories. He had not thought to meet her here, when he returned to this house, but at this moment it seemed to him that all his actions had led him to this. He did not believe in divine intervention, in a destiny made anyone other than himself, and so he was forced to assume that this–this–was simply what he had been working towards all along, before he even knew of her existence.

Fully softened he fell to her side, their limbs still entangled, his body still reluctant to let her go. She spoke and his fingers caressed her skin, sliding over breast and nipple, dipping into the hollow of her throat, admiring the flush that overtook the ivory.

Was this how he thought of her? His thoughts had encompassed a million fantasies, a multitude of scenarios taking into account everything he wished to do to her–a train car, a stammering boy, blood and laughter–but the gist of it was all the same. Sansa, innocent and yet so very much not, enjoying this all a bit too much, giving herself to him with her eyes wide. Stained, defiled, and utterly pristine.

Petyr’s fingers dipped lower, between her legs, his fingertips coating with the residue slickness. “Yes, it was.” His hand moved upward, dragging the stain in its wake.

“Are you happy, Sansa?” A silly question, perhaps, but he needed to hear her say it. In a short while they would be away, this place just a chapter in their lives–that was the future as he saw it, but anything could happen.

He needed to know that he would not be leaving this house alone again.

 

**[Sansa]**

His fingers reached between her legs again and her breath hitched against him, still sensitive from from her recent peak. In his wake a trail of fluid painted along her skin, cooling quickly in the air, causing a shiver to run down her limbs. She could not be sure if it was the cold that was the true reason for it, or his admission of how he thought of her. Even now, bare to each other, stained with each other, the thought of him thinking of her forced her face to shade, although it was not an unwelcome thought, she decided.

The question he next asked caught her off guard. Honestly, she hadn’t really considered it, her happiness. Everything had happened so quickly, her mother’s death, an affair, a murder, the girl scarcely had time to consider it. Now, now things were slowing down, but she did not hesitate in her answer. She knew she was.

“Yes.” It felt more complicated than that, as if there was some other, more appropriate way to answer him, something more than yes. Maybe she was only making it seem that way in her head; their situation was certainly twisted, far from what she’d imagined her future would be, but that did not mean she wasn’t happy.

What was she before? She could hardly remember that girl from her past, the one with a family, the one more concerned about courtesy than her own desires. And it would have continued that way with her aunt she knew, if not for the man resting beside her, caressing her skin. And so she curled into him, her lips grazing his cheek, the ghost of her smile still lingering as she added to her answer. “I think, for the first time.” For the first time, she had something that was hers, she had somewhere she felt she belonged.

Maybe it was her youth that compelled her to return his question. “And you?” She pulled back to face him, her eyes meeting his own, focused on the green mixed with specks of grey. The real concern was quick on her tongue next, the worry of a girl not yet confident enough in herself. “Are you happy with me?” Perhaps there was a part of her that would not believe it entirely, that would not be certain until they were on the train and leaving, his arm in hers, together.

 

**[Petyr]**

He exhaled a breath he was unaware he had been holding at her words, her confirmation, and then quickly chastised himself for that reaction. It was not the reaction of the man he had become but rather the boy he had been, wrapped up in the opinion of a Tully girl, desperate for approval. He should, by all accounts, not let her see, should keep himself at arm’s length and allow her to pine. It would not be advisable, after all this time and all his effort, for him to fall back into that mold.

And yet he found he could not keep himself back, not really. He told himself that for her to see some, for him to give in just a bit, would not be of concern. Hours later, separated from her, he might think different, but he was hard-pressed to think of a benefit to being so cold. Not when she was pressed against him, warm and needy in a way that he had only been able to fantasize about before. Not when she had done so much, seen so much, lied for him.

His fingers coiled in her hair, bringing the red up to the light. Her breath was hot on him, her whole being alive, and he felt an unmistakable pull, the memory of an emotion–real and genuine–he had no felt in years.

He would need to be very, very careful.

Sansa was looking at him now, her eyes wide and almost innocent, a reflection of the past in living flesh. A reflection and yet not, for had her mother ever granted him such a look? Had any woman? She had watched a neck snap, she had smelled death, she had seen the vial and yet here she was, as earnest as a young bride. She seemed to give no thought to the stains she wore, and the blush that colored her cheeks did not appear to be caused by the act.

Petyr kissed her, desperate to taste her in that moment, his lips lingering over hers when he pulled away to speak. “How could I not be?” Did she not see what it was she did to him? Did she not see how eager he was to fit her into his life?

His body was heavy, the pull of an afternoon sleep very strong. He wanted to rest for days and wake to find her by his side, their life beginning.

 

**[Sansa]**

He gave her an answer, and the girl could hardly resist a smile. Sated and warm against him, she would be content to spend a lifetime in much of the same circumstances. It was easy to forget the gruesome events leading up to the moment, or even to accept them entirely, when this was her reward.

She took a moment to watch him, her fingers skimming his skin. This was a different man than the one the world saw. She’d noticed the dichotomy early enough on, nearly from the beginning, and perhaps that was the cause her for mistrust at the start. The look he’d given her in the hallway, her hand in his, the indecent way his fingers had slid against her skirt…it did not match to the way he spoke to others. Not even his wife had ever been able to boast the hungry looks he gave her. It was almost as if he might be two people; on one hand there was Petyr, and on the other there was a much darker version of himself.

It was that terrible side of him that snapped a neck, that dealt that poison, but that was not the same man that kissed her then, that told her he was happy. That was the man she saw now, the one to whom she gifted her smile.

The girl kissed him back, open and slow but full of a smitten girl’s longing. She pressed her stained and tired body flush to him, tangling her legs with his own. It was a selfish move more than anything, an attempt to coerce him to stay with her, even for a little while longer. The will was done, he had what he came from; they had it. Even if they were discovered, was there truly a risk anymore?

The girl honestly didn’t know, but that didn’t stop her from coiling about him, her lips pressing softly to his jaw before speaking against his skin.

“When can we leave?” Now and now and now. “I want to sleep next to you.” I want to wake up with you. Not even murder could kill that need for some semblance of romance, of a connection lasting longer than a few moments of desperate sounds and clawing fingers.

**[Petyr]**

It was a predicament he was certain most men would long for, having a sweet girl such as this entangled in his body. Petyr felt it all the more, considering who she was, considering what this meant. The scent of her was not just the scent of someone fine, it was the scent of all that had been denied him for so long. The longing words she spoke were not merely a lover’s need, but a promise that what he had done had been worth it. It had all been worth it, leading up to this moment.

But he would be fooling himself if he said that was all this was, that she was merely a shadow or a prize, smoke in his arms. There was something inside her that resonated in him, a jolt caused by something twisted and buried. The feelings that coursed through him now seemed so much stronger than the ones of years past, and it was not only because she was so responsive. The reality of what he had wanted in the past would never have lived up to the dream, not truly, for it would not be this.

“Soon. A manner of days.” He longed to be gone as well, to fall into bed with her every night and wake in a tangle of limbs such as this. The house all around was quiet; it would be the easiest thing in the world to fall into a late afternoon doze and wake just as dinner was ready.

Easy, but not the most cautious. There was still danger here, lurking in the fine velvet of society. And some part of him, some awful part, wanted to see just how needy he could make her. It would be all too easy to give it all to her now, before their flight.

With a kiss he left the bed, and began to speak of business.  
—


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a nice little chapter before the /real/ sinning begins.

**[Petyr]**

He packed light, but then again he had arrived with nothing.

He only took the finest, of course, though he limited himself to only a few cases. He would be gaining more on the road, and he did not need too many reminders of this place.

All around them the house was readying itself for the departure, for the arrival of the cousins. He couldn’t say the servants were sad to see him leave but they did not seem to be making a fuss, too desperate to get the pair of them out of the house to gossip. He conducted his affairs with Sansa in the most professional tone, his fingers lingering on her skin when no one was watching. He wasn’t certain what exactly she was taking, though he hoped she left herself with ample room for reinvention.

They breakfasted together the morning before their departure, the press of the half-packed bags above him. Still he could not resist seeing her, being alone with her, teasing her.

“Are you very cross with me?” he said, buttering his bread.

 

**[Sansa]**

The morning before they were set to leave she stood in her room. She called it hers, then, in her mind, but it had never really felt like her own. It certainly wasn’t hers now; it was more empty than it had been before she arrived. Her hairbrush and small bottle of perfume gone from the vanity, the bed stripped in preparation of the new occupiers.

Secondhand clothing lined the single bag she meant to take with her. Her aunt had not been generous with clothing, with gifts at all, and so her packing was entirely light. They would make a poor match in the city if she did not find new attire when she arrived; her own few dresses had become worn with exploring the grounds, mourning family, and from being hastily pulled off by her uncle.

A few odd trinkets were tucked into the sides, as well as the brooch the man had given her, a ring she oughtn’t still have, and one more thing that wasn’t hers. She couldn’t say what compelled her to take it, but she refused to believe it was greed. A lovely silver hair comb rested in her luggage, delicate and ornate, decorated with swirls and little jewels. The girl had never actually seen her aunt wear it, but she had no use for it anymore. Perhaps she wanted a reminder.

-

She saw him at breakfast, and it surprised her. Since the day of the will, since his quick departure from her, she’d scarcely caught sight of him. The more time passed, the more tetchy she’d become with his teasing caresses, with the promise of more with no result. Their most recent encounter, a brush against each other in the hallway the day before, had left the girl most irritable.

Sansa picked at her meal, staring at the food, avoiding his stare. He must have noticed, not that she was doing much to hide it, and she looked up to him at his question. “And if I am?” An eyebrow raised, her lips quirked just slightly, trying her hardest to appear quite cross. “What will you do?” If she were being honest, it was impossible to be angry at all, not when she was so close to what she wanted, that escape.

It had been backward for them for the start. There had been no courting, no shy smiles or awkward preludes to their pairing. With them, it seemed, the toying came after.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr took a bite of his bread and shook the crumbs from his fingers, not returning her hardened stare. He had been away from her for so long that any sort of emotion in her eyes stirred something in him, and yet he kept himself back. This would be the last time in quite a while that they would operate under any kind of restraint, and he wanted to enjoy the paradoxical nature of it for as long as he could.

“I suppose I would do what any loving uncle would, and correct such behavior.” He said this as he was pouring his tea, his eyes focused on the fine cup in front of him. He didn’t need to glance up to see the blush painting her cheeks, and he felt a twinge in his heart. Would that he could bottle that feeling up.

“Tea?” The offer was made with a familiar smile set on his lips, his face a mask of innocence that did not come close to matching his thoughts. For his mind was full of all the wicked, wicked things he would do to her once they have shook the bounds of this place, things that he had not yet voiced. He knew, of course, that she would agree, while biting her lip and playing the ingenue. That she would willingly submit, and then beg.

In the pale light of the parlor she looked even fairer, her skin nearly the color of the tablecloth, her hair holding the sun. It was a faded look, not at all suited to her or her beauty, the aged nature of the house at odds with her youth. He was itching not just to have her alone, to have her free, but to bring her to life. To watch her charm and wind her way through society dripping in jewels and silks. To hear her laugh in a way that he had seldom experienced here. To witness her claw and bite and destroy without so much as a hair out of place. To see her crave his approval, now and forever, and to be there to see her succeed.

“Have you finished packing, sweetling?” All notions of being cross were set aside in favor, as always, of the goal.

 

**[Sansa]**

She felt the heat rush to her face, and wondered how he still managed to cause that sort of reaction from her. The girl considered his words regarding correcting her behaviour, shifting her gaze back to the tablecloth, wondering exactly what he meant by that. She didn’t ask, worried she’d overstepped her bounds with unwarranted cheek, but then he was speaking again, seemingly unaffected, and she put it out of mind.

The girl declined the tea; her veins were already rushing with adrenaline, and the tea would only set her further alight. The energy was nervous and impatient at once, one emotion trumping the other at any given instant. It could not come soon enough, or perhaps it was all too soon now. And more than that; she still she had very little idea of what to expect.

“I’m ready. I didn’t have a great deal to pack.” And whatever she did not decide to take with her was intentional; things she did not want any longer. Reminders of a life soon to be forgotten.

She’d been so eager to leave, and she wondered if he wouldn’t like to have stayed a while longer, to enjoy his victory. “Are you sad to be leaving so soon?” He’d grown up within the walls that surrounded them, she had the proof now in old photographs. Still, Sansa could not deny she was curious to see him outside of the confines of the estate; would he be terribly different to the man she lifted her gaze to?

Would _she_ be terribly different? The girl set her napkin on the table; she was too anxious now to eat. She had chosen her best dress for the occasion, a light blue shade, something refreshing after her mourning attire. She hoped it would suit for the trip.

And how long the journey would take? Her assumption was that it would likely be a long while. She also did not know what would happen when they arrived to their destination; the folly of a girl anticipating the departure more than the destination. And so she asked the question she ought to have approached much earlier. “When we get to the city where will we stay?” For a moment she felt apprehension at the thought; the girl was placing her trust in him entirely now. There would be no servants, no neighbours, no one save him.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr sipped at the tea, watching her as she ignored her food. Her hands betrayed her nerves, and he hoped that his pointed gaze in that direction would let her know she needed to calm herself. It was time she began to learn the coolness that would be required of her.

There was, however, something to be said for the kind of nervous excitement that seemed to course through her. It gave her a sense of the innocence she no longer retained. Perhaps such actions would not be such a hindrance. Perhaps it would help them ease their way into some good graces.

So she was coming without ties. That pleased him more than he thought she should know, the fact that she would be coming with him relatively unadorned. Ready to mold, ready to shape with all the finery that had been denied her. The strings, it seemed, were not as hard for him to snap as he had once feared.

Sansa continued the conversation, speaking of leaving the house and any potential regret he may have. And for the first time Petyr confronted, truly, what that meant. It took more than he would care to admit for him to return here, to cast his eyes once more on the place that had destroyed him, and it was only in digging his hands into the foundation and ripping it to shreds that he had found some semblance of peace. But of course as he had done so there had been pangs, as was to be expected. Fragments of memories that may or may not be accurate but were keenly felt all the same. Reflections of what might of been, had he not found himself on the path that had brought him to this place.

Always she was there, with her smile that was not Cat’s, with her wit and grace that was without peer, to pull him back.

“No, I don’t think I am. I don’t tend to settle for long. And this place has not been kind.” He cast his eyes down to the table, collecting himself from another unwanted memory. “I believe our work here is done.”

The topic of where they would stay was a better one, one that drew from him a familiar smile. “Only in the finest places, I should think. We are not wanting, and when funds run low I think you will find it will not be hard to bring ourselves back up.”

Grey-green eyes hit at her untouched plate and the smile at his lips gained a familiar curl. The tension still rested, and he would not be himself were he not to poke it. “Of course, nothing will happen if you do not eat. The journey will be exhausting.”

 

**[Sansa]**

Sansa did not miss his stare, and swiftly attempted to cease her restlessness. She set her hands on her lap, hiding them from view.

The girl listened carefully to his words, to the measly pieces of offered information she could hold tightly to. She might have guessed he moved around frequently, but other questions were born from that admission. Had he spent his entire life in the same way, from the moment he left the estate to the present? Had all his years been filled with conning and scheming, living day to day? Had he ever truly called a place home? Maybe they were the same after all. No families left to speak of save the other, no deeply set roots to tether them. She found solace in that thought.

It would explain his calm exterior now, as she tried to contain her own excitement. Perhaps the relocations, the constant adjustments, were nothing more than routine for him. She wondered, watching him then, if he’d ever taken anyone with him before, or if she was the first. She was afraid to ask, unsure of which answer she wanted to hear.

She was pleased to see his smile resurface when he spoke of where they would go. The image of staying in the finest places in New York served to help her focus away from her questions. Her own grin formed as she looked away for a moment, picturing in her mind the most extravagant hotels filled with only the rich and famous. And they would be walking among them. Everything would be new and bright and freeing; she could scarcely hide her delight.

The subject did not linger on the estate or New York for long, replaced with something decidedly more corrective. She took a piece of bread from her barely touched plate, taking a small bite, hoping to satisfy his concerns. It did not seem to be enough, the strange look in his eyes remained, and so she took another set of bites, nibbling the food she had no stomach for. Perhaps she was remiss in not taking the offered tea.

Her brow furrowed. “Exhausting? We’ll be sitting, won’t we?” From what she knew of trains they were a relaxing enough method of travel. She could sleep the entirety of the journey if she pleased. An apple slice was picked up between index and thumb as she spoke. “I thought I might take a book with me, something to pass the time on the trip. Would you like one as well? Surely one or two won’t be missed from the study.”

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr settled back into his chair, taking just a moment to fully appreciate the sight before him. He had not thought to return to this place, to be sitting once more in this room, and he had certainly not imagined that across from him would ever be a girl such as this. Her eyes were wide, her movements graceful in that unforced way that seemed utterly lacking in her class, and she smiled at him in turn.

It was a treat to be savored.

He watched her pick at her food, the hunger for his approval evident in every tentative bite. It thrilled him more than he could say to have her do something on his suggestion, to watch her follow through on his command. His fingers curled against the fine tablecloth. This could be interesting.

Her question said much about her relative lack of experience, and Petyr smiled warmly. “Maybe for others it would be a relaxing journey, but you never know what opportunities will arise. It’s not advisable to ever rest completely.”

Books, however, were always welcome, as was the idea of spending some time in her company. Petyr rose from the table and closed the short distance between them, his fingers trailing over the cloth, just in the way he had once done with her skirt.

“Perhaps we shall make the trip together, to pick out our reading material? After that, if you don’t mind, I have a bit of a surprise for you.” He reached out to take her hand, entreating her to come.

 

**[Sansa]**

He was right, of course. It wouldn’t be wise to lose focus during the long journey, and more so after they arrived in the city. She must stay alert; the girl would be out of her element in a new place brimming with people, and she wanted to prove to him she was capable of handling it. Sansa wanted him to see he’d made a good decision in bringing her along.

Her eyes caught the movement of his fingers; long digits idly skimming the cloth as he moved to meet. She lingered on them for a moment, admiring his clean hands, the deft movements, before meeting his own stare.

“I’d be please if you joined me.” She was thankful he suggested accompanying her, for more practical reasons than anything else. She’d no idea what sort of books he enjoyed reading. Surely not the romantic ones her aunt loved so much. But he continued, disrupting that thought, and the edges of her mouth tilted up again. “A surprise?” Her mind raced, wondering what sort of thing he might surprise her with, coming up entirely empty.

She took his offered hand, rising to meet him, allowing herself to be guided through the house. The girl made a point to pay attention to her surroundings; the smells, the faded colours of the walls that came with structures having stood for generations. It may be the last time in a long time she would see the home, and she wanted to remember. Even though they were not taking much with them she could not help but think it seemed empty now. The servants had been thinned out, Lysa had kept more than necessary, but nothing else had truly changed.

Nothing but her, perhaps.

In the study, she chose two books for herself. Mystery novels, works of fictions, and she did not dare make a guess for him, asking instead, “What sort of things do you like to read?” While she spoke, she couldn’t help but anticipate whatever it was he’d mentioned before, watching him carefully, the smile poorly hidden, as she held her books in hand. She was still a girl, after all, and what girl doesn’t love a surprise?

 

**[Petyr]**

He guided her into the library, the picture of innocence. Petyr could not help himself from reflecting on what a harmless sight they must be, the uncle leading his dear niece as they went off to find some suitable reading material for their trip. The show of normality excited him almost as much as bare skin. He thought of leading her through fine rooms just such as these, under marked stares, no one aware of the lingering remnants of him that dotted her skin.

Once in the study Sansa busied herself to her task. Her mood had improved greatly since her aunt’s death, since she knew her time at this place was at an end, and she had a life about her that he had only seen flickers of before. Petyr cast his eyes on the faded spines, his gaze finally landing on a book that had once been well-loved, tales of heroism liable to poison the mind. He moved his eyes from it before he snapped it from the self and flung it against the wall. He did not wish to spoil this golden afternoon.

He chose with care, books of literature and philosophy, plays and politics. And all the while he was conscious of Sansa’s eyes on him, flicking up at him at intervals, a smile evident on her face. Her excitement warmed him more than he expected, a warmth that was so much more than mere lust. To be needed in this way, by such a girl, was the sweetest feeling he could imagine.

Books ready, the turned to her, caught her eager gaze. He played with it a bit, staring down at his reading material, gathering them all neatly together. When he turned to her he played the role of a man who had forgotten his promise until that moment.

“Ah! So, a surprise. I’m afraid you will have to follow me to my bedroom, my dear.” It lay on his bed, finely wrapped, and he could not wait to see her run her hands over it.

 

**[Sansa]**

He was in such good spirits, the girl couldn’t hide her own excited smile as she caught that teasing gleam in his eyes. The books in her arms were nearly forgotten. Even his own choices, which she’d carefully noted in her mind, were swept to the sides of her mind in favour of a girl’s foolishness as they took leave of the study.

To any outsider, or even the house staff she hoped, they would have seemed like nothing more than family. Two people who weren’t terribly close trying to make their way in the wake of tragedy; a sad tale, to be sure. That did not stop her from briefly touching his arm, his hand, when she was certain they would not be seen. She wanted that secret, fleeting contact as they walked from the study to his room. He led her to the familiar door, and the girl made certain to lock it after, unsure of exactly to expect.

On the bed rested the surprise in the form of a decorated box. Feet brought her toward it before she had a chance to think on it, her hand reaching for his to bring him along as well. Her free arm moved to grazed the ornate wrapping, appreciating the feel of something so fine, something for her.

She turned, two fingers still brushing against the gift, and of course courtesy nettled her. “You didn’t have to…you’ve already done so much.” _Too much, really._ He’d taken a life to protect her, and that wasn’t something so easily repaid. The scale would forever be tipped to him; perhaps in time that would become a more harrowing consideration. And here he was, giving her more and more, creating an even greater imbalance. A new life, wealth, company, and whatever was inside that wrapping.

Still, the girl that she was, she found the temptation of something so potentially lovely too much; digits delicately began to unwrap, feeling the warmth of him behind her, feeling his own anticipation alongside her own.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr stood back, watching as she appraised her gift with all the excitement that came with youth, trying to tamper his own nerves. How curious, after all that he had done and seen, that this act was what gave him some pause? But like any beau he was locked in a needy role of wanting to please, which was an utterly, painfully, normal position.

He suspected he would never grow tired of giving her gifts, of seeing the joy that overtook her face. It was almost as sweet as lust, as cunning.

The wrapping had been delicately applied at the shop and Sansa took care with it. He was suddenly quite aware of the fact that it was unlikely she was used to receiving gifts, or at least had grown unused to the concept. He was, as always, wonderfully surprised by how much they had in common.

Paper aside, box opened, Sansa dipped her hands into it and pushed away the soft tissue that enclosed the present. Now open for her gaze she pulled back, and Petyr reached out to brush his hand along her waist.

He was not quite sure of her measurements, but he had brought one of her gowns to the shop and the dressmaker seemed to know what exactly needed to be done. The end result sat before them–a gown of blue and cream, the color of her eyes and her skin, in the finest silk and lace she was likely to ever see. Cut in the way a woman’s gowns were, a marked contrast to what she wore now, a gown for the woman she had become.

“I thought you needed some suitable travel attire. A prelude for what is to come.” He pushed himself against her, the nervous joy cracking through his voice. His fingers were at the buttons of her dress, eager for her to put it on. “Do you like it?”

 

**[Sansa]**

“ _Oh.”_ A sound that was more whisper than word as she saw what rested in the box. For a moment she did not have a reply for him, instead silently running her fingers along the fabric with a sort of reverence. It was lovely; the shade of blue matched her eyes exactly, the lace and fabric unparalleled to anything she might have worn before.

It was more than that, however; this was not a dress for a child, but one fit for a woman. A partner, not simply a niece. It was that thought that brought the smile to her face.

She felt him against her back, a pleasant warmth, when she finally spoke. “It’s beautiful, Petyr.” Tentative hands reached to pull it from the box, handing the dress as if her palms were likely to ruin it. The girl imagined him visiting the shop, carefully choosing the colour, guessing her measurements. Somehow it made it seem terribly personal, more thoughtful than a piece of jewellery or flowers.

And when had she even been given something so fine, something so meaningful?

He was unfastening then, helping her shed the older garment, preparing her for the new one. Her heartbeat was quick, her breath seeming far too loud in the quiet room, and were her hands trembling slightly? The old dress fell to the floor and she slid it aside with her foot, turning to look to her uncle before she donned the gift.

And of course it fit, she’d known already that it would as she slipped the dress on, her eyes on him all the while. She did not wait for him to help her button the back, instead moving to bring her arms to wrap around the man in an embrace. “I love it.” She drew her face back enough for him to see, to see that smile she could not hide. “Thank you.”

 

**[Petyr]**

He exhaled along with her, somewhat taken aback by the breath that he had been holding. It was an oddly familiar, entirely uncomfortable feeling that was coursing through him, that of having his heart in his chest and his fate in the hands of this girl. That she responded as she did, that she fawned over the gift and him by proxy, soothed him more than he could say.

He didn’t even focus, really, on the bare skin that was presented to him, the softness of her limbs and frame clothed only in a slight slip. He was so wrapped up in the idea of seeing her in his silks, in appraising her after the breathless statements she had made, that he hurried the gown on her. It fit well enough, though future gowns would surely be more tailored. He could see her then, being measured with that same look on her face, her eyes cast lovingly to him.

“Surely the gown should fit the wearer?” The words were spoken almost as a whisper, lest he spoil this event. His fingers moved to help her fasten herself but she would not stand still, turning and throwing herself in his arms with a rush. Her words had a touch of honesty to them that seemed unusual; he was not quite accustomed to the idea. Still he wrapped his arms around her, met her gaze when she spoke, shared in her smile.

“The first of many.” He would see her clothed in all the finery that was owed to her. He would have her on his arm, splendid and admired, and bathe in the jealous, hungry stares.

Petyr leaned in to kiss her, mouth open, his lips more eager than he expected. Pulling back he turned her in his arms, forced her to gaze upon the two of them in the mirror.

“Aren’t we a sight?” His lips were a curve at her temple, breathing her in.

 

**[Sansa]**

Her mouth opened to him, relishing that connection, that promise of more. Her body shifted to accommodate, getting used to the fine feel of the dress. And then she was turned, facing the mirror, looking at the pair, at the girl she wouldn’t have recognised a year ago.

Sansa nodded at his question; she found herself unable to take her eyes off of their reflections. For the first time they seemed to match, his own suit just as fine as her new dress. She was still smiling, still buzzing with excitement, but there was something more there now, a sense of rightness. It was right; they were a match.

She did not doubt it now, even if she might have before. He wouldn’t be taking her with him if he harboured strong reservations about their relationship; it would have been all too easy to leave her in the estate, to abandon her. She wondered if he felt the same constant pull that she did, a never-ending tugging at her chest, a desire for him to be always near. He must; the way he watched her mirror-self confirmed that shared binding.

Things were going to be very different soon, she knew. They would not be so confined, so isolated, and surely their lives would not be so simple any longer. She ought to have been worried, perhaps, when she considered the unknown future that rested in front of her. She ought to have been, but she wasn’t, not with the press of him against her, his words at her ear.

She was watching him through the glass when she spoke next. “Thank you.” She wasn’t quite sure what she was thanking him for. It might have been the dress, or the brooch, or the night in the grove. It might have been for stopping her aunt from attacking her, or the upcoming escape. Most likely, it was for everything.

**


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Spanking  
> ...oops

**[Petyr]**

Their departure was an uneventful thing; it was as if the house itself was abandoning them. A midday meal was taken without any fanfare, the few servants who had been left behind already in the process of readying the house for its new occupants. Sansa and Petyr were merely an inconvenience, a presence to be tolerated, which was a state that suited Petyr just fine.

If anyone had any qualms about Sansa’s too-fine gown they did not voice them. The girl herself seemed overjoyed, her back straight in her chair as she took her meal, and Petyr could not help himself from devouring her with his eyes. And why should he not? She was as much his creation as anyone’s, and should a man not be proud of his accomplishments? Should he be expected to sit across from such a woman and not feel a smidgen of pride, of excitement of what she was capable of? Clothes made a person–this was a fact as far as he was concerned–and the gown seemed to reveal something that had, until now, been hidden in the girl, under all her Stark mannerisms.

Hidden, of course, from all but him.

The driver deposited them at the station with only a passing word, and with not a glance back as he left them with their bags. Petyr could not help but reflect how very much alike this afternoon was from the day they had met, the sky a clear blue that mocked them with the lack of rain, the air so dry it was liable to choke one’s lungs. He frowned at the dirt on his shoes, reached down to wipe them clean with a silk handkerchief. For more than one reason he was eager to return to the city, at least there he would find muck he understood.

They were alone, really and truly, for the first time. He took a moment to savor that truth, hold it close and feel the electric charge of it. He stared at her now openly, lingered over the way her hair held the dying light, not attempting at all the hide the heat he could feel in his gaze. The crowd mulled around them, and soon enough their bags would be placed on the train and they would retreat to their cabin, to the darkness that was theirs. But, for now, he stared at her in the open.

He remembered himself at this very same station a lifetime ago, his body wrecked and his mind blank. That day had passed in sickness, the fog and the rain just as mocking as the sun was now. Halfway through that trip his stitches had burst, and it was not until a lady had shrieked that he noticed the spill of blood.

He had made that voyage alone. He thought of Cat, proud back at the main house, and wondered what she would say if she could see him now.

 

**[Sansa]**

If Sansa had been expecting a heartfelt goodbye from the house staff then she was sorely disappointed. Their focus seemed to be entirely on the incoming tenants, on preparing for the distant relations, on forgetting about the pair that lingered. Then again, perhaps it was for the best. Maybe they’d heard the indecent noises emanating from either room, or noticed the questionable stains on sheets even after Lysa met her accident. Maybe they were glad to be rid of them.

The station, in stark contrast to the house they’d so recently vacated, was bustling. For a moment she did not know exactly how to react to it; she’d become so used to the quiet, to the solitude that was only briefly interrupted by two very different funerals. But these people weren’t in mourning. The crowd before her wore excitement, impatience, and a myriad of other emotions she had not realised she’d been missing.

Seeing Petyr amongst the throngs, skilfully leading her in the right direction, was something new as well. His steps were sure and fluid, and the girl was certain he would not lead her astray. Her dress swished along as she trailed after him, taking in the sight of it all, the beginning of a new life. She wondered, with the sort of anticipation that comes with seeing a lover in a new setting, just how different he would be when they reached the city.

His eyes were on her almost all the while, she could see him, feel his stare on her, watching her reactions. She offered him a smile, reaching for his hand in a need for some measure of connection, no matter how small. And who would notice the gesture now? There was no lurking aunt, no spying maids to point an accusing finger. The thought was a comfort, although perhaps the aloneness of the pair of them should not have been.

He’d booked a private compartment, he must have, as they made their way beyond the open cabin of travellers. They were moving back, back to where the nicer compartments would surely be; Sansa had gleaned enough of the man to know that he would want to make the journey with the utmost comfort. Before they reached their seats the train lurched forward, and the girl let out a sigh of relief as she squeezed his hand. _Finally_ , finally she was truly leaving.

 

**[Petyr]**

He hadn’t realized how much he was itching for a chance to leave before they boarded the train. It was almost as if he could feel it all in his bones, the gears and the smoke, the road that stretched out before them. Sansa’s presence had done much to make him feel alive over these past few months but now, among the dirt and the grease and the ramble, he felt he was finally in his element. Every time his eyes moved from the girl (which was not often, if he was being honest) it was to take in the whole of the scene before him with a grand sweep–the decor, the bustle, the potential marks.

She grasped his hand and he felt that same thrill that he had experienced long ago, back in the study when she attempted to return his first gift. There was something illicit lingering in the simple, innocent gesture, the shared knowledge of what they really were tainting it. Petyr revelled in the feeling, pressing his palm into hers, hoping she would flash back to that hidden bruise on her leg. His eyes landed on a finely dressed woman, her clothes just a bit threadbare, and he held her gaze, granted her a terrible, gentle smile. Perhaps she would grant them some amusement on this trip, but for now he was content to make her watch.

Their further back they went, the quieter things grew. They seemed to be surrounded more by objects than by people, which was not exactly a terrible thing, in his mind. The wood paneling was fine as could be, carved and dark and speaking of a wealth that seemed obscene these days. The door to their cabin was opened for them, offering a sight into another world.

Everything was shiny and dark, glass and gold, dark skills and velvet. Everything was ornate, patterned and etched. Everything, in other words, was all too much. The movement of the train only seemed to increase the vulgarity of the richness on display, as the fact that this was only temporary made the whole thing that much sweeter.

Petyr stood in the doorway, leaned against the frame, and allowed her free rein to take it all in. Lysa had been wealthy indeed, but her wealth had been diminished over the years, by bad investments and the crash. Most of what she possessed was tied up with the house. Still, she had left them with a nice sum, and Petyr had no qualms about spending it all now. Funds would be easy enough to come by, especially with such a partner.

“Are you pleased?” When he spoke he tried to keep his voice calm, as if he did not hang in waiting for her answer. He closed the door behind him, so that they were alone in this traveling mansion.

 

**[Sansa]**

It was a large room, bigger than seemed to fit inside the train itself, and it was theirs. Her legs were still a bit unsteady at the new sensation of movement; her body’s proprioception off in an attempt to adjust. That did not stop her mouth from going slack, her eyes wide when she saw just how lovely the cabin was. The chairs covered in soft velvet, the sounds of the other passengers locked away as soon as Petyr closed the door.

Beyond the furnishings, a large window framed the outside world, naught but open fields at the moment, but she knew she would have a clear view of the city when they approached. The girl grinned at the thought of that moment, of seeing her future approach, with the man beside her. She ran her fingers along the fine wood, taking in the sight of their accommodation, wondering just what the cost of such a cabin might have been.

Growing up, her family had their own wealth to boast of, but boasting was entirely frowned upon by her father. Theirs was a home of modesty despite the money in Ned Stark’s pockets; it would not do to flaunt such things in times so hard. And so to see such a display, such thriftless spending, such obvious expense, was not something she was accustomed to. Still, she ought to have expected it; the man before her was one who made his living wanting more.

It was no longer as harrowing a thought as it once was, not with pleasures such as private cabins to enjoy.

And he was asking if she was pleased; her body turning back to look at the man before she answered. “It’s so…” _Perfect, beautiful, isolated…_ “Yes, of course.” Of course she was pleased; it was magnificent. She watched him, and he looked somehow younger to her then, as if leaving the estate and beginning fresh had wiped the years from his face. The cares by his eyes seemed less defined, his smile came easier. The girl looked away, then, resisting the temptation to move to him, to wrap her arms around him, the blush on her face surely betraying her mind.

She had her choice of places to rest, her feet carrying her to a sofa near to the window. In her hand she held a book and nothing else; the rest of her belongings stowed away for the duration. “How long will the trip last, do you know?” Again, the girl had not thought ahead, so focused she’d been on the leaving part of the scheme. How long would they have the quiet, ornate cabin on this leg of their journey?

 

**[Petyr]**

He watched her delicate step as she made her way through the cabin, her body clearly unused to the jerk of rail travel. Soon enough she would glide over it as he did, her frame becoming more in-tuned with the sensation. He expected she could soon grow quite at ease with a number of things.

Sansa wore a blush on her cheeks and one would think she was an innocent. Perhaps he could thank this trip for showing him just how far she needed to go, just how much polish he needed to apply, though a part of him did not wish to destroy that completely. He knew well enough what a powerful weapon she had there, how likely she was able to lead men to destruction with the promise of defilement.

Petyr was unable to hold himself back from her for much longer, now that the restraints have been all but removed. He followed her step, his eyes not leaving her frame as he made his way to her side, settled against her on the sofa.Their bodies touched, and oh! How he had longed for such relaxation! How many times had he been forced to sit across her and not touch, how many times had he been denied the public taking of gifts she so willingly gave?

His hand settled on her knee, fingers gripping till she surely felt, the act almost a declaration of what was to come. Even in their play that wasn’t, that of uncle and niece, he had no excuse not to keep her close. Her on his arm, his fingers on her back–outside of Lysa’s gaze he was merely a concerned, protective uncle, guiding her in the world. Of course he was guiding her, instructing her in what was right, but he had a feeling society would find his methods and lessons in poor taste.

“A few weeks, I suppose. There are stops to be made. Aren’t you thankful for such a fine cabin to stay in?” He glanced once more about the room, his eyes soaking in the wealth that lay before him. There was a time, years ago, that such a place would have been beyond his dreams, but no more. Now he could reach out and take.

“Dinner will be served soon. Would you like to eat in here, or mingle with the rest?” He himself could think of positives for both–he was eager to feed her in privacy, to linger over food and kisses, but he was just as eager to see her thrust into the crowd. They had time to kill, distractions to plan, an education to undertake.

Petyr reached out and wrapped a strand of hair around his finger, pulling her close, savoring her lips.

 

**[Sansa]**

_Weeks_. Weeks alone together, spent entirely in each others company if they so wished. They were locked away, hidden amongst the finery and the comforts that came with exorbitant wealth. The other passengers would know soon, if they did not already, which of them had the privilege of the most lovely cabins as opposed to the ones affordable to all others. She wondered if it was normal for an uncle and niece to share a cabin, she wondered if the others would talk.

He followed her down to sitting, and she was quickly aware of just how much solitude they were granted. The sounds of the train, the dull constant thrum of wheels on the track, the engine’s hum, were already things she barely noticed, especially as the man grew close, taking her attention. She felt his hand on her knee, the fabric of her new, delicate dress pressing into her skin, and she was certain they would find no boredom on the train, on the journey.

She felt warm, suddenly, and would that ever fade, that need? Did she _want_ it to fade?

“I’m thankful to have an gracious uncle who cares for me so.” The words were intentionally sly, but there was truth to them; she _was_ thankful. But her half-lidded eyes, the way she responded to his touch, a slow swallow, told a much more intimate tale.

He spoke of dinner, and she was made aware then of her own hunger, having been masked by anticipation through the day but now quite apparent. The man was giving her a choice, although she thought she knew which answer he wanted to hear; she saw the glint in his eye when he mentioned dining with the rest. And more than that, she wanted to see him, the way he might walk about them, the way he would act. She was curious to see, to pry apart more of him.

His mouth was on hers, and she gladly accepted it, turning her head toward his hand, angling her to his embrace before pulling back for a moment, not truly leaving him. “With the others. I think that would be best, don’t you?” She was more than a little intrigued about the sorts of people that would be making the long endeavour with them, and perhaps it would stifle that warmth below her navel for a time.

She smiled into his mouth, fingers grazing his shirt, her body arching into his before she had a chance to consider her own movements. “I don’t know how much eating we’ll get to otherwise.

 

**[Petyr]**

To have her curled up against him like this, _just so_ , felt awfully inappropriate and completely right. He embraced it, that wonderful, delicious, paradox and pushed against her in turn, his lips not really leaving hers. Breathing in, breathing out, her scent, her proximity, the tangible presence that was _her_ , that would no longer be denied him. It was a heady feeling, this realization, not unlike being drunk. 

He was more than pleased with her choice, despite the fact that the idea of lingering over her with food seemed appealing. But there would be time for that in their shared future and the idea of showing her off and figuring out the lay of the land, so to speak, was too hard to resist. 

“Clever.” He gave her the compliment with a hand curled under her chin, holding her up for view. Her eyes caught the light that filled the windows. He kissed her again in that light, as public as they could be. 

“And we have some time before dinner is served.” Petyr’s other hand splayed across her back, fingers settling in to the space between the buttons. The idea of taking her to the dining car, on his arm, her body stained and marked under that fine gift of a dress was almost too much. He could picture the men staring at her, the men who could never have her, not really, and the smirk that would cross his lips as he thought _if they only knew_. 

He kissed her again, lips traveling to her ear. “Perhaps we shall work up an appetite.” His words were clipped, sharp things that did little to betray his need.

Petyr pulled back then, bringing her into his lap as he did so, his hands gripping at her waist. “Consider this night the first in your proper education.”

 

**[Sansa]**

She beamed at his word. _Clever._ To hear that sort of compliment from him, a man who seemed to possess that trait himself in spades, was worth a great deal. Still, that thought of dining in a crowd felt more and more distant, moving to the edges of her mind, replaced with his touch, his arms bringing her closer in a single fluid tug. 

It was almost strange, how easily she fit atop him when he pulled her to his lap, his teasing words still in her ear. Her fingers skimmed his jaw, her eyes watching his lips, enjoying the uninhibited connection, the lack of worry over being discovered. Sansa, still brimming with excitement from the newness of it all and from the freedom now so tangible that she could nearly taste it, found herself keen to play this game with him.

“I might already have quite the appetite; you know well enough how little I had for breakfast.” And was it nearly a laugh that escaped her? There was a lightness about her, even as her heartbeat hastened, her body beginning to feel that too familiar ache. “But I could always help you along with yours.” She saw that same change in him; he no longer carried the weight pressed on him by the estate, by whatever it was that made him so ready to be gone from that place. And inside herself, selfishly, she wanted to give herself at least some of the credit for that difference. She wanted to believe she was the one making him happy. 

Her mouth lowered to his neck, then, leaving warm and open kisses, tasting the light saltiness on his skin. He spoke of learning, and she realised at that moment that she would likely never see a schoolroom again. Like a trade, she would pick her education up sans textbook or chalk dust; the skills she would discover would not be the sort found in classes, just as she was certain _he_ hadn’t learned such things in school. 

The thought was not one that bothered her. 

Sansa’s thighs shifted until her chest pressed closer, both from a need for proximity and a desire to incite. “What would you like me to do?” Whether she meant in the immediate present or later in the evening amongst their fellow diners she did not say.

 

**[Petyr]**

He held the image of her, smiling and light, almost impossibly happy, in his mind. To know that he was the cause of that emotion, that she hungered for his respect and approval, was indeed something to linger on. Once he had wished to see such a look from her mother and had been denied, time and again, but now it seemed as if life was making up for that rejection and then some. Sansa had a sharpness about her that had been lacking in her elder, and that just made the victory and the reward that much sweeter–he did not think he could ever convince Cat to bloody herself for him, or to lie with such skill. The darkness that tainted the edges of this kept him from hating himself for reverting to past wants. 

Her lips were on his neck, her words an easy flirtation that would not have come from her months before. Petyr reached up to run his fingers over some bare skin, the tips of them slipping into the fine dress, tugging at it lightly so that she may get the hint. Such a garment must not be mussed. 

“What would you want to do?” He spoke the words with a lowered voice, his body already restraining itself (did she even know what exactly she was capable of?) as he moved away just enough to let her sift out of her garment. 

“Would you wish to charm them, to flirt and to drink and to amuse yourself?” Already he could picture her with some poor boy at her side. Petyr could almost feel the excitement he would get in that fantasy, watching her watch him as she controlled another man.

“And what would you have me do to you?” The words coiled like smoke in his mouth, so heavy and sweet. He had voiced them before but now, in their solitude, there was a power there they had not had before. He could feel it in his fingertips as he gripped at her sides. Now it was _real_. “How exactly shall I educate you, sweetling?”

 

**[Sansa]**

She stood up at his suggestion, leaving his warmth once his fingers made that indication at her dress. And he spoke of boys, of courting them, and the girl knew she could do that. She could be polite and demure; that’s how she’d been taught to act, after all. And more, she wanted to _show him_ she could do it, to see that pride in his smile. 

Her arms moved to her back, just reaching the buttons of her garment. Blue eyes stayed on him, intent, while she worked to loosen the thing, tauntingly slow. While she disrobed, she spoke to him, putting on a decidedly more youthful lilt. “I’m travelling with my uncle, you see.” The dress fell, and she slipped her legs out of it, her slip still covering her. “We’re moving to New York, have you ever been? I’ve heard it’s lovely.” She leaned, slowly, to gather the blue material, lazily walking to drape it on a straight chair back before turning again to him. “Will you fetch me another glass of wine? I find myself quite parched.” 

Her fingers weaved into her hair, then, pulling out the securings that held together her neat up-do. The pins fell to the floor without a thought, auburn locks cascading in loose waves around her shoulders. It was his eyes she watched, looking for any sign that she was affecting him. The darkened gaze, his breathing almost imperceptibly faster, gave away that he was feeling something near to what she did. It urged her on, desperate for more of that, and she knew so well now why he enjoyed watching her break. 

He asked the question then, and what did she want to be shown? In the end, it was not the _why_ but the _how_ that intrigued her. The man had been up to these sorts of schemes for a lifetime, and surely they were not all as simple as Lysa. The foolish woman had been infatuated with him for long years before his game with her commenced. It would be more complicated than that outside of the isolated estate, she was certain of it. “You’ll show me how you do it, won’t you? How to make someone…” _How to make someone love you._ Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? 

She closed the distance, lips parted, unable to keep herself from him any longer. Her palms moved to rest on either of his knees, her body leaning forward for a kiss. The world whirred by, the light dimming through the window, but the girl did not notice.

 

**[Petyr]**

Petyr settled into the sofa, his back straight as a rod as he admired her show. And he had to admire her, for her nervous excitement at the idea of seduction and approval bleed through the mask, coloring the act with a natural sheen that went far beyond any learned skill. He could almost feel sorrow for any young men that found themselves in her path–that is, he would if they weren’t trying to have her. 

“Good, good.” Words of encouragement, chosen to keep her striving for more. Not that he had much to fear in that realm, for if there is one thing he had learned about Sansa in their time to together it was that she was hungry. She always wanted more, more, more. It was, perhaps, the first bit of familiarity he had noticed in her. 

The fact that he was reacting, in many ways, like the young men soon would was not entirely lost of him, though at least Petyr was able to acknowledge it. He reigned himself in, not allowing himself to move on the seat even as he felt his flesh overheat, even as he yearned to run his hands through that unbound hair. She would come to him, of that he was certain, and he embraced this moment for the glorious tension that it was. 

Her question demanded a real answer, as shown by the fact that she chose that moment to finally give in. He met her, of course, his mouth on hers slow, his hand reaching up to claim her in an iron grip that almost surprised him. Perhaps the image of these hypothetical men had been too much and he felt the need to mark her even now, in the face of these ghosts. He paused briefly, trying to calm himself, telling himself he needed to settle in order for this to work. 

 _Work and pleasure are two separate things_. An obvious statement; he hated the fact that he needed to tell himself this. The boy he had been was the one caught up in such nonsense. The man was more practical, always had been.

“Of course. Though its more a polish than anything else.” His hands skimmed up her sides, lifting the edges of the slip over hip and waist, revealing herself to his eager gaze. “You know very well how to lure a man.”

 

**[Sansa]**

The encouragements on his tongue were more than welcome; she revelled in them. Still his words gave her pause. “Do I?” No matter that it seemed to be in her future; luring a man had never been an objective of hers in the past. Harry was the one to make the effort to woo her, and the same could have been said for the handful of foolish boys before him. She had no real experience in the field, not in the way her uncle did with his marks. And her banter, her relationship with Petyr? Well, their game was entirely different, something more than a simple ruse.

She hoped.

And so the journey aboard the train would be a test, she knew, something beyond watching a drop of poison fall or a neck snap. Her words would need to incite, her smiles and compliments would need to sound genuine; all of it done under his watchful eyes and educating words. Through that closed door was opportunity, but also a chance to fail, and the girl could feel her chest tighten at that thought. Perhaps she could stall another day, if she played her cards right.

He was lifting her slip, exposing her slowly to himself, and Sansa allowed it. One of her hand left his leg and moved to her underwear, sliding the clothing down and away before she found herself atop him once more. Her knees planted on either side of his thighs, the thin slip hitching around her waist, auburn hair in waves around her shoulders.

Her fingers began toying with the collar of his fine shirt before working at the buttons, and she wondered what it was he wanted in that moment. “Do you feel thoroughly lured, uncle?” He was warm under her, radiating. And she could feel that need, that tangible proof so difficult for a man to conceal, especially with a girl on his lap. She leaned, the side of her nose grazing his, lips brushing their partner’s, and he was sure to feel her heavy breath on her mouth. Hips rocked, more for her own benefit than any tease for the man, and even atop him she felt caught in some trap of her own making.

Blue eyes closed; his grip on her was too much, and she found herself unable to focus on anything but that building, base need for more. When she spoke she knew her voice would give away that fault, that desire, and possibly, that nervousness. “Perhaps we should stay in tonight after all.” Digits continued plucking buttons, hoping to feel skin on skin.

 

**[Petyr]**

There was an odd, primal, power in remaining clothed while a woman stripped before you, for even though she was making work of his buttons there was no mistaking the fact that she was far more undone. Petyr held that feeling close, coiled it up inside himself, for who knew when he would need that little push of ego? The path set before them had the potential to be a rather thorny one, and he might be forced to compare himself to some young cad.

But not only that, he knew that she would never react like this to just anyone. Her movements, of course, would be the same, but in those instances they would be hollow things. Ghosts from encounters such as this, lacking any of the warmth or sincerity that he felt in her now. And the hunger! She was rubbing her hips against him like a bitch in heat, would she ever be that needy for another man?

He could feel her, wet against his leg, and it she didn’t need to ask to draw his fingers forward. He slid between her lips with an eager hand, his eyes not leaving the darkness of her own, his mouth swallowing the moan he pulled from her. He rubbed himself against her, building friction, teasing her in the way he knew she loved. It had gotten to the point where he could almost predict the pants that would escape her lips, the way in which she would react when he moved his hand just so. She had become made for him.

She had always been made for him.

Petyr smirked into her kiss at her words. “Why? We have more than enough time. Don’t you want me to show you off?” An idea, something wicked and awful and not at all what she was used to formed in his mind, and his hand grew eager to react. As in all things he wanted to see how she would respond to a slightly darker hue.

Without a word he snapped his free hand, the one not buried in her core, away and brought it swiftly down upon her backside. He dug his nails into the pure flesh there, picturing the red mark that would bloom in its wake, and held onto her gaze with a knowing grin.

“We can’t have you going there unmarked, of course.”

 

**[Sansa]**

His digits found her, slipping between her legs with familiarity. Now, in the state she was in, instead of mingling with the others, her mind could only see the pair tangled in sheets, covering each other, taking each other again and again. “There will be other nights…” It was a half-hearted counter; that look in his eyes, and she knew she would so what he desired.

They moved with such synchronicity, fitting so perfectly that she could scarcely remember a time when he wasn’t her world. It was nearly a frightening idea, that she could be so bound to another in such a short span. She wondered, for an odd and fleeting second, if her mother and father felt something near to what she did. The comparison rang dull to her ears; she and Petyr were something that did not seem analogous to any others.

She was enjoying the feel of his fingers, her own working to expose his chest, wishing to feel him against her. But then-

-something entirely new, and quick; his hand moved, she heard the sound before she felt it properly; his palm collided with soft flesh in a sharp blow. Sansa made a sound, a strangled sort of gasp, the surprise evident against their joined mouths. She pulled back, eyes wide and watching, unsure of how to react. Her shoulders tensed and she could not help her spine straightening, aligning with a new feeling of adrenaline coursing through her.

His name was a question, a warning, a confused plea.

One hand was still there, still there with clawing nails as the offended skin prickled and smarted. And his fingers were inside her working, pumping, still compounding that throbbing need. Her body kept those hasty motions going as he spoke, unable to help her hips from rising to meet him while he elaborated on his actions. It was clear then that his motion was no accident, no incautious lapse of judgement, _no._ His eyes, his words, were dripping with lust, with intent.

 _“We can’t._ ” The question sounded childish, her voice wavering despite the efforts to control it. She’d carried marks from him since their first meeting; scratches from the bark of a tree, bruises from digging nails and tongue and teeth, but this was something new. Her breath came hitched, her body still taut with pleasure and wariness, the combination not as unwelcome as she would have thought.

His palm still rested on her backside, soothing even with the harshness of his hold. And his fingers did not relent; she could do nothing else but kiss him, open and raw, her body alight with both unease and anticipation.

**[Petyr]**

Was there ever a sight as fascinating as this? Her eyes were wide with confusion but not repulsion, her mind putting together what was happening, her whole being alight and responsive? Petyr would be hard-pressed to name one, and surely he had never had the pleasure of experiencing one so intimately. He licked his lips, a quick motion that was sure to further her feeling of on edge. His body sung with what could be done, his hands tightening just a bit on her to keep himself in check. The way in which she spoke his name, with fear and need, did not help in reigning himself in.

And so he did what he did when he was always unsure: he talked, he teased.

“We can’t?” His words had a lighter lilt then hers, as if he were discussing nothing more nebulous than the weather. To emphasize his point he curled two fingers inside her, let himself rest in her core. She was so hot, so wet; she was liable to stain his cuffs at any moment (and to think, some would question the amount of shirts he brought!) Her hips were moving over his hand, her body seeking contact in an instinctive way, and he knew there was no way she would turn back from this.

“And why can’t we, sweetling?” He accompanied his words with another quick slap. The sound of flesh rang in the cabin, the heat from her reddened skin mingling with the heat of his palm. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back for a moment, his hand gently cooling her flesh where he had struck, his body pushing up against hers to seek some relief for his trapped cock. It was hard to get the sounds she was making out of his head, that amazingly unique uttering that came with something new and exciting and confusing.

“You seem to like this,” He chastised when he regained control of himself, pumping in and out of her with digits for emphasis. “Or do you always grow so wet for what you hate?” His lips were curled now, the tease pushing him on where his control failed him. “You deserve this, don’t you? Or perhaps you can tell me why I should not treat you so?”

Another smack, this one harder than before, and he groaned through it. “Perhaps you can beg me.” He left what for unspoken.

**[Sansa]**

She took him in, the way he held her close, his pelvis lifting to meet her. He was unraveling, wanting just as much as she; the years had simply granted him that patience, that ability to savour that she had not perfected yet. Still, the effect the girl had on the man was evident in those rare, heated moments, and she drank them in while she could, delighting in his lapse of control even as her own body was at odds between pain and enjoyment.

But then he was leading again, curling digits into her, his teasing words acting as some sort of twisted encouragement. Another slap and the girl cried out, soon burying her face in the crook of his neck, stifling the sounds made from his next blow. And still she moved against him, chasing that feeling his fingers granted her. She pressed her body to him, rocking against the clothed bulge between them, all too eager with the isolation they were given.

His words were true, she knew; the girl was shamefully wet. She could hear the slick sounds as he toyed with her, and his trousers were undoubtedly an unfortunate victim of their tryst. But how could that be? How could a childish punishment serve to augment that burning, to drive her into a frenzy even as she felt that lingering soreness, that hurt, along her skin?

 _No,_ she didn’t like it, did she? Sansa told herself she most certainly did not; her words soft in his ear. “I don’t-“ _Don’t what, you stupid girl?_ “I don’t deserve this…” Another slap, and her grip tightened around him, her eyes forced shut as she made another noise into his skin. “I haven’t done anything.” But _oh,_ she had, she’d done so many things that any moral person would consider very, awfully wrong. And all because of him, the man dealing the terrible, tempting punishment. Perhaps that’s why she was having difficulty truly telling him no, telling herself no.

Softer still. “Please.”

One arm wrapped around his shoulder, an anchor as she writhed and squirmed, her face red with shame in the dimming light. Her free hand moved between them, reaching for his slacks, and she wasn’t sure if she meant to distract him from his actions or incite him further. “ _Please_.” The girl said it once more, and what was she pleading for now? It was hard to know when she was so close, when her flesh still tingled from his palm, when she sought that hardness between his legs.

 

**[Petyr]**

What a marvelous sight such conflict was! Sansa was all flushed and frazzled, her body wanting something her mind told her she could not have, working itself around an idea that seemed totally wicked even when placed alongside what they had already done. Petyr, of course, did not focus for too long on why he was doing this or why he got such pleasure out of it, merely directing all his attention to her. And wasn’t it because of her that he was doing this? The feeling of power, of respect, that she granted him?

She pleaded in his ear, and how sweet it sounded to hear her voice beg. He met her eyes, held her gaze, allowed her to see just how much pleasure he took in all this (if she could not already feel the tell-tale evidence between them, his own search for relief).

“Please?” The question was spoken in the most quizzical voice he could manage, as if he had never before heard the word. “Do you wish for me to stop?”

With that he moved his hand away, granting her neither punishment nor comfort. He gave her the power to ask for what she wanted, to tell him to stop or, as he suspected, to beg him for more.

“You don’t deserve this?” That was spoken with a more teasing tone, his fingers curling inside her for emphasis. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing it softly in lazy circles, his gaze not once leaving her face.

“I would think that a niece that sleeps with her uncle, that plays the whore for him, deserves this, don’t you?” Petyr spoke as if it were the most common question to be asked. He was marking the shifts in her expression, the way she broke for him, using that as fuel for the furnace of his self-confidence. Years ago he had been thrown from this family and now look, the heir in his lap submitting herself, the real pleasure that coursed through him–everything was being corrected in time, bettered.

“I’m not a sadist–if you ask me to stop, I will.” With that his fingers left her core, his mouth rising in the irony of it all. “But I don’t think you do.”

 

**[Sansa]**

He kept her stare on him, but truthfully she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. This, this was what she wanted to see in him; that hunger in his eyes was so vibrant, so entrancing. And the girl was most definitely captivated, so far beyond his clever fingers pressing into her. She was becoming dizzy, drunk on the pleasure she gave him, even if she did not fully understand why such a thing should make his eyes wild and dark or his body taut for her.

She wondered, with some small bit of pride, if anyone had ever gotten this close to him.

He chastised her, and perhaps she did deserve it. His accusations rang true, even as he neglected to mention his own part in the dance. “I-“ And how should she tell him? He already knew she did not want it to end, she could see that plainly in his expectant look, his teasing words that were slowly losing that mentoring edge in place of need.

A whimper as his fingers left her centre, the intrusion entirely missed; the sound she made was something almost pathetic as she battled those duelling sensations. Her core throbbed, a torture that allowed little else to be the focus of her attention. Her hips still rocked, searching for digits no longer inside her. And more, her struck flesh prickled still, a lingering burn that seemed to serve to keep her on edge, a different feeling altogether from simple lust.

Sansa had no doubt that if she asked him to stop, if she told him that word, stop, he would. He would kiss her gently, perhaps, and take her against him. If she asked for comfort, he would likely give her that as well. In her naivety she did not realise the cards she held or how much she truly affected him, but she did understand enough. It didn’t matter, however; in that moment, sharing breaths as if it was the more natural thing she’d ever done, a murder in the dust behind him, and she could not lie to herself.

She tried again. “I-,“ but the girl was at a loss, torn between what was right and that shared thing between them, unable to voice that shameful confession. Instead of speaking she kissed him, hoping that would be enough to convey what she wanted. It was something harsh and starved and wanton, showing him she knew just as well as he did that she would not shy away from him. Tentatively, her hand moved from his slacks, reaching for his own hand, guiding it back to that marred flesh, urging him to continue, her body tensing in preparation for another blow.

A whisper, warm against his mouth and in the form of his name. An encouragement, and how far that girl had fallen.

**[Petyr]**

He would, of course, had preferred begging words to come out of her mouth, pushing him on and revealing her desire. Petyr thought he would always have a deep attachment to hearing wicked, vulgar things spill from those lips, and the moments when he could draw her out that way would always be precious indeed. But his body craved hers just as much, and he took the movements she made for what they were–a consent, a submission, a deeper way to convey her feelings that mere speech. He kissed her with relish, swallowing his name on her lips, the intonation exactly like a curse.

When he pulled back it was with purpose. One hand returned to her core, to the welcoming warmth, while the other made quick work of his slacks, freeing himself for her intentions. Once bare he smacked he again, without warning, listening to the sound ring out against the dark wood. He wondered if, cloistered away as they were, anyone outside could hear what was happening. He almost wished they could.

“You like this, don’t you?” He spoke with a breathy voice, holding onto her burning flesh. And he could not help himself from prying, from pushing something that would make her blush. “What do you think the boys you will flirt with would think of this?”

Perhaps he did not do enough to hide the bitterness in his tone, there. His nails cut into the soft flesh of her rump just a little too hard; he could already picture the bruises that would form in their wake, the way a boy’s eyes would widen if he ever got a glimpse of that pristine flesh. Not that it would ever be his.

His hands went to Sansa’s waist then, wet and red on her skin, pushing her forward so that she could get an idea of what he wanted. He had never before taken her in this way, but then again he had never done this to her before, and what was this trip but a chance for new experiences.  
His slacks were already ruined for the evening, why not mark them further?

“Tell me what you want.” As much as he loved her sounds, the non-verbal encouragements she gave him, nothing would ever replace her voice asking him, in slow but confident tone, to fuck her hard.

 

**[Sansa]**

The slap caught her by surprise more than the rest, perhaps because she’d already been tense, been waiting for it with apprehension. Her cry resonated in the quiet room; she hadn’t had the time to stifle it in her shock. It was difficult to linger on; his fingers once again sinking into her, blurring the sensations she was feeling into a single, desperate ache until her cry turned into a whine, her spine arching, seeking.

Her eyes were wide, the warmed skin his palm still rested on cried out, no longer quite as soothed by his hold after the number of strikes. And when he asked the question she told him the truth. “I do.” It was a whisper, small, more breath than actual words. It scared her a little, the admission, the shameful truth of it. “I like it.” She wondered what her aunt would think of them now, what her family would think of her; the young, hopeful girl turned indecent at the hand of her aunt’s widower.

He spoke of the future, of what any other might think of her. She could see it well enough; judgmental eyes scanning bruised skin, the red and purple remnants of their strange affair. But it didn’t matter; she only cared about one man’s opinion, and he seemed to delight in it all. She thought she might have seen something in him then, some twinge of something, and it urged her to respond. “They won’t know.” Those boys, the ones awaiting her in the yet unexplored cabins, or the ones she’ll meet in New York; they won’t know. They don’t deserve to know.

Petyr was moving her then, his hands guiding her forward, and of course she obliged, her breath shortening and body warm with fever, nerves firing in anticipation.

And she knew what he wanted. She remembered all too easily his reaction to filthy words; he loved to say them, he loved her hear her say them. If she hadn’t been so tightly wound, so eager, she might have had the will to hold her tongue, but then again, this was not the time for a loving embrace or flowery words. The throbbing along her backside in time with her core, his digging nails, were all proof enough of that.

“I want-“ She pulled back slightly, her gazing fixing on him. ”I want you to fuck me.” For emphasis she pressed against him, her body coiling around his, feeling the exposed parts of him. Her voice would sound sweet, perhaps, a juxtaposition considering the circumstances. “Will you fuck me?” And then, because the girl had been remiss with her policies. “Please, uncle?”

 

**[Petyr]**

The sound she pulled from him was nothing human. A moan it was, thick and strangled in his throat, but not one he had ever heard before. His body grew hotter, and how was it she could have such an effect on him? Still, after all that had passed? Considering all the experience that he brought to this relationship?

The sound of her familial plea echoed in his mind, tightened his chest, went straight to his cock. Any mocking phrases that had been on his tongue dried up; the time for speech was clearly over. Now was the time for flesh and scent and the act of sin that they so welcomed.

Gripping her tight he drew her up; holding himself in one hand he was able to angle her forward. He filled her with three small cants of his hips, his body reacting as if he was entering a hot bath after a tiring day. Everything about her was warm and familiar, a comfort he had not expected wrapped up in something that would distaste most everyone. Petyr arched back, holding her in place in for a moment in order to enjoy that sensation, the one that he chased again and again and had never been able to put into words.

Collected he began to fall into a pattern, slow rolls of the hips that allowed him to regain some of his control. He found his tongue again, thick in his mouth but able to work, the pressure on his chest compelling him to speak, to share something of this moment with her. “Never let it be said I fail as an uncle.” He arched his brow, proud of himself that he was able to do anything but grimace and fuck and take her in the loud, violent way he had never been able to before.

However he felt the overwhelming need to express some of what was there, burning in his fingers. He had Sansa Stark bouncing on his cock, half-clothed and desperate, and still he could not help but push her further and further into decadence. He had had her with blood freshly spilled and he wished nothing more than to continue that feeling, that rush, forever more.

He filled her completely and accompanied it with a smack to her rump once more. He could only picture how it would look when this was all over, how she would be forced to sit for the next day, and the pleasure it gave him expressed itself in the way he moved. Soon there would not be a day when she did not wear some remnant of him. He would make up for lost time.

“They won’t know what a little whore you are? What a minx?” He spoke these words because they gave him pleasure. He could see those hapless boys, drunk and stupid, thinking they were in control, as all their illusions were shattered. He could see the joy she took in grinding them down, her eyes looking to him for approval, and it was almost enough to bring him off.

 

**[Sansa]**

The sound he made was raw; her licentious words providing the results she was eager for. His control fell, the open desire writ plain on his face, and the girl would gladly drown in that stare, let it envelope her without struggle.

She could have laughed when he spoke of his role as an uncle. From her own experience uncles were meant to visit on holidays, bring her cousins to play with, give her gifts on her birthday. To be acting in such a manner, to bury fingers and cock into his young niece, was not something that any proper uncle, or any proper man for that matter, ought to be doing. She would lodge no complaints with him for it, however; she had no complaints to voice.

He shifted her, led her up, showing her how the dance was done in the new position. It was a sigh of relief that escaped her when he finally, thankfully, sank into her. Eyes closed, her mouth agape, relishing the way he stretched her, the way his grip guided her. The connection was no longer simply attributed to blind lust; it was a comfort, a confirmation.

And he began to move, demonstrating his want in each upward press. She met each thrust with vigour, no longer hiding her harsh breath or encouraging groans, occasionally finding his mouth in an open, brief meeting. And when his palm struck her again it was something near to an intoxicated moan that was forced from her chest and vocal chords. The line between hurt and that chase was no longer so defined. In truth, the line was gone.

He spoke of future suitors again, and the girl’s mouth found his ear. “They won’t.” The future targets of their game would want an innocent, untouched thing. The marked, stain girl lewdly undulating atop her uncle would be concealed, hidden away for moments such as these. And more, between short bursts of breath, she said something honest, fuelled by their joined bodies, by that need to have something good. “They won’t know I’m yours.” Strangely, she wondered if that would bother him.

Oh, and her movements were such a contrast to that demure young one that would grace the public parts of the train. She hoped her haste was catching then, the desperate rock of her hips now that she knew how to move at her angle. The girl slid fingers into his hair, the hold firm and tugging, while her other hand planted on his shoulder, sliding off the shirt still half covering him in order to feel bare skin.

 

**[Petyr]**

It hadn’t taken long for her cries to turn into moans, lusty things that echoed his own. He wondered if Sansa had ever conceived of this punishment being used in this way, the excitement that came with leading her into a new sin rushing through him, The girl on top of him, taking his cock with such glee, was a Tully and a Stark and yet not, for he had never known this streak to be present in either family. There was something darker, something uniquely her there, overwhelming her moral qualities. And it had been he that orchestrated its birth; she was his creation as much as she was theirs.

He was close, and how could he not be? With such a lead-up to the act, with such a girl on him, ripping at his clothes in order to feel him? She spoke of the boys not knowing her, the real her, and her assurance both pleased and annoyed him. No, of course they would not know the real her–she was for him only–but he needed to see the light in their eyes fade when they realized that. He needed to see the dawning realization when they uncovered bruises and bites and understood that, for all their wealth and their looks, they could never truly have her. That she was beyond their grasp, their comprehension. Surely he could make Sansa understand that.

Perhaps it was this annoyance that fueled his next move, giving her a series of short, hard slaps to both cheeks, his hand stinging more and more. He wanted to see her come from this, to break around him while being chastised, to know what exactly she was. But he did not intend to treat her poorly, and after the blows he laid a soothing hand across her, his other moving to tease her where they were joined, to push her on.

The act had a similar effect on him, his cock twitching inside her, and he knew it was enough. Nails dug into both cheeks, trying to hold himself off long enough for her to gain her pleasure, a foot kicking at the floor.

 _“Sansa…_ ” Her name, spoken in a tone he rarely used. A desperate plea that he hated himself for.

 

**[Sansa]**

A new thought entered her mind, clear and enticing despite the act they were engaged in. She could picture herself flirting, toying with some boy, looking back coyly to her uncle for approval. In her fantasy she saw not only pride in his eyes but something altogether different; the burgeoning glare of jealousy in that greenish-grey stare. His marks were a claim, a warning to others, wrought from a primal instinct to brand. A show of possession, his and his and his; it was etched in every bruise, every rough hold, every biting kiss. His eyes told her he wanted them to see, he wanted them to know. That was his nature.

Perhaps they truly were the same; her nails dug into his shoulder, and how she craved that similar hold in response. He’d known she would not balk at his hand striking her backside, he’d known because of that wretched, wonderful thing that tied them together. Sansa wondered if it was luck or misfortune that brought them in their own ways to her aunt’s doorstep. Maybe both, maybe neither; time would tell, and in that moment she did not feel unfortunate, even as he teased her.

Her thighs were growing sore from the chase, but that realisation was quickly trumped by his palm striking and striking, over and again. The girl yelped and moaned, neither sound quite winning out as she held onto him, clinging just to stay in place. Her skin ached, and she was certain the flesh would be angry and red long after this was over. She could almost see him admiring his work later, like a painter would a canvass, and the thought was not so terrible.

Her movements grew erratic when his fingers found her, coaxing her on to meet him. The train moved, the dull hum continued under them, the faint jerking of the transport indiscernible from their frantic presses. Slick sounds were heard between them, along with breath and moans and whines. It was a strange, discordant melody ringing loud in the quiet room.

And then, Sansa, her name spoken on his lips in such a way that she forgot to breath, she ceased that vital respiration in favour of allowing herself to be pushed over the edge, focused on his fingers, his cock, her name. When she remembered to exhale Sansa keened for him, only for him, clenching around him, letting that blinding shock take her and radiate outward.

**[Petyr]**

There is was. That primal clench, that sound that seemed to be nothing less that pleasure distilled, that utter relief. Every time she broke for him was like the first time, a fine liquor that only grew better with age. In those moments she grasped at him with the same vulgar intensity that he did. In those moments, more than any other, he was convinced they were the same.

She wore him on her skin; he wore her in his mind. Always, always her.

Petyr had little time to reflect on this. Her reaction pushed his on and he could do little to restrain himself. He ground his teeth against the grunt the seemed to come from the bottom of his lungs, smacked at her now without thought, filled her as if he had never taken her before. And in many ways wasn’t this the first? Their first time with this cover, their first time in freedom? The house had added an illicit taste to all their other couplings, done as they were in secret and supposed shame, but if this act was any indication the road would be all the sweeter.

His vision blurred, he laid his head against the back of the sofa. His arms grew weak at her side but still he did not let her go, fingers dancing along the flesh he had nearly destroyed, needing that constant contact. Already his mind was filled with images of the dinning car, with the way in which she would sit and stand as the bruises bloomed across her skin, and he could not imagine anything more delectable.

Breath caught he looked at her, took her mouth in a slow kiss. His clothes were damp with sweat and sin, his limbs aching, but he found he could not move. He would need a bath before dinner, a long soak in order to correct himself. With one hand he reached for his suit jacket draped nearby, pulled a silver cigarette case from the pocket with shaky fingers. Petyr lit one and exhaled with a shudder, the smoke easing through his body, a perfect chaser. He wasn’t sure why a good smoke tasted so well after a good fuck, and was surprised that he had gone this long with her without indulging.

He gazed at her through the tendrils of it, still buried deep inside her core, not wishing to leave. Removing the smoke from his lips he held it up to her, silently offering a hit.

**[Sansa]**

She was still wrapped up in her own end when she felt that final slap. The girl was too conflicted, unsure of what to make of the sensation; it only grew more complicated when he tensed beneath her, holding her as if she was the only thing that mattered in the world. And she gripped him back, her muscles clenching and taking in that familiar warmth, murmured words of encouragement escaping her lips. Would it always be like this? Would it always be so good, so terrible, so addictive? She didn’t want to ask and ruin the moment, and so she settled for looking to him with tired eyes, opening her mouth to him when he drew her nearer. And after a moment she watched him find a tiny case, picking out a cigarette and lighting it, soon enough offering her a taste.

“I’ve never…” It wasn’t entirely the truth; she could remember trying to smoke once when Robb (or perhaps Jon, she could not remember for certain) had nicked one from their father’s office. He’d passed it to Sansa, all eyes on her as she’d held it between cautious index and second. The girl had pretended then, breathing in through her nose instead of her mouth, a clearly false attempt, and Arya had made fun of her.

Nervous eyes now regarded the smoking thing. She daren’t take the offered cigarette herself, too afraid of it escaping through her trembling fingers, instead trusting him to guide it correctly to her mouth. She inhaled, taking in the fumes the man savoured, but her reward was a set of coughs, a sputter, her throat burning along with the linger ache of her bottom. Small tendrils of smoke left through her lips, her nose, and it was perhaps more embarrassing than his teasing words, his striking hand.

She leaned into him, averting her eyes, almost nuzzling into his neck. As she felt each of his long inhalations, his chest expanding as he enjoyed the smoke filling his lungs, she left open and sated kissed along the slope of his neck. Her knees were sore, she noticed, as she shifted to slip his softening cock from her core. The girl shuddered, fluid cooling as it mixed between them, but she did not move away; she would not be the one to break their connection.

Her limbs were weak, her body spent as she pulled back again to look at him. A small, determined hand darted up, finding his wrist, pulling the fingers that still held the cigarette toward her mouth once more. She watched him as she took a smaller drag this time, prepared now for that burn, that ache. It was still a clumsy thing, but she did not choke or cough, the greyish fumes mixing between them when she leaned in again for a kiss.

 

**[Petyr]**

A smile crossed his sated face at the tentative way she undertook the smoke, her coughing fit, the shyness that came rushing on its heels. It was an oddly endearing thing to see her unused to such a common vice, considering all that had passed between them. It made him all the more aware of her youth and, more profoundly, of the role he played in her education, in bringing her into the world.

Sansa settled against him to hide her reaction and he said nothing, merely turning to his smoke, the fingers of his free hand drawing lazy patterns along her skin. What was it that made a smoke such a pleasure after a nice fuck? It was a question that he had thought of before, and never had he been able to arrive at a proper answer, but the truth was unmistakeable. The smoke seemed to do something to weary limbs, to fuzzy mind, almost as if it prolonged the exhilaration. To have a fine cigarette, accompanied by a lovely and freshly sullied woman sitting in his lap, offering kisses, was nothing short of paradise.

It was Sansa who broke their spell, pulling up but not away, a more awake and alive look in her eyes. Small fingers enclosed his wrist and she pulled the burning thing to her lips. Petyr let her, the tired grin on his face not moving as she took a more delicate hit this time. She’s a fast learner, he thought with pride as he watched the thin tendrils of smoke leave her red lips. When she leaned forward to meet him he breathed it it, sharing in the taste, his tongue flicking into her mouth the grasp all he could.

“Isn’t it sweet?” He could not help himself from asking, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that had not yet ended, so great was his need to share this relaxation. He could think of few other practices as indulgent as this one; he could think of no other women he would want to share it with.

He pulled away enough to take another drag, holding the smoke in his mouth this time. Perhaps the darkening of his eyes would have told her his intent, as he leaned forward and opened his mouth for her to partake.

 

**[Sansa]**

Sansa knew there were sweeter things, but in that moment she couldn’t think of a single one; she beamed as he gave her that approving smile, that eagerness to make him proud more evident in her features than she might have liked. Her breath was settling into an easy pull of air, body cooling down save for that reddened skin along her backside which remained entirely warm. His fingertips caressed her in such a soft contrast to the palm that had bestowed such marks, and she found herself far too relaxed under his touch.

And for the first time they were not constrained by some worry of time, of being found. New York might be different, but for the moment they could do what they pleased, and that thought was an enticing one.

She simply watched him for a few long seconds, the man bringing that cigarette up to his lips once more, doing so with the ease of someone who had taken up the habit years ago. But instead of that expected exhale, he leaned, intending to share. She knew well enough what he wanted from her then, and the girl opened for him, her body curling into him as she met him once more, taking in that gifted smoke. Her hips pressed down slightly as she moved, and she couldn’t help but appreciate the bare feel of him against her, compounded by how sensitive she felt after their act.

And this was the freedom she’d been craving, that freedom she desired even before she first caught sight of the man at her mother’s funeral. It was a slightly different bird, this one with the colours of bruises and smoke and moss and lead, but it promised so much more that what she could have concocted in girlish fantasy. Perhaps she’d always been dreaming of a darker sort of escape, in the edges of her mind, a secret thing unspoken and lined with shadows. Perhaps she had always been waiting for him.

The girl could stay atop him for the entire night if he let her, despite the ache in her knees, the stains covering her. She was enjoying the taste of him more than she cared to admit; that unique flavour on his tongue mixed with smoke and sweat. Almost reluctantly she pulled back an inch in order to breathe, in order to give him a bit of a tease as one hand splayed along his chest. “And how is your appetite now?” Her eyes lit up, a sly smile forming to match. “I do hope I’ve done my part in helping it along.” Surely her own efforts weren’t all for naught; surely he was as spent as she.

 

**[Petyr]**

Her weight against him was heavy but it was a pleasing pressure, offering the same comfort as he found in the smoke. She was starting to learn how to move against him, how to distribute herself to extract the ultimate sensation from shared skin, and he would be lying if he said it did not work on him. He wondered if the girl was even half-aware of what she was capable of; he suspected not. When her skills had been sharpened to a point and it came time to use them he hoped that he would merely be an observer of the attack.

Petyr lingered in the shared luxury of sensation, taking in the smell of her hair and her sweat and her sex, marveling at the heat that still came off her flesh. In a short while bruises would dot her skin, the color of steel, in patterns that betrayed his claim. He would be able to trace the wounds with his fingertips, just as he would bring her clothed and masked to the dining car, and know exactly what she was.

Sansa pulled back just a bit, her words a flirtation. He suspected she would want to keep him here, in a tangle of limbs, and Petyr could not lie and say that was not a welcome suggestion. But the idea of society had been dropped into his mind, where it festered and grew. He could see the shine and the filth of the high class, he could feel the rush that would come with bringing her out of the shadows in order to get a sense of the field. Already the exhilaration of sex was being chased away by this anticipation, and he could not wait to stretch his weary muscles in public. He had not thought, really, of how caged he had been under Lysa, of how little Sansa knew of the game.

“You’ve done a great service.” He kissed her again, almost sweetly, his hands curling into her skin as he prepared to move her. He couldn’t bring himself to, not just yet, but his voice took on a more authoritative tone.

“I feel it is time we righted ourselves–dinner will not be for an hour or so, but we must make an entrance. We need to be talked about.” He had no doubt they would be talked about, as a curiosity, as an abomination–it did not matter. Talk was talk, and interest paid. “Tonight will set the mood for our time here. And I suspect we will find something to amuse ourselves.”

With that he moved, placing her gently aside. Correcting himself enough to stand he moved to the vanity, the smile etched on his face.


End file.
